The Devil You Know
by Steffs
Summary: John Winchester on a hunt with Bill Harville ecounters a Demon. That Demon gives John a message which leads him on a quest for information. Information regarding his son Sam.
1. Chapter 1

Authors Notes

I always wondered how much John Winchester knew about Sam and how he found out. So I wrote this story.

**The Devil You Know**

**Prologue**

Whimpers from the small child disturbed the black silence of the cellar. Fright had long paralysed her will and she sat scrunched in a damp corner, knees up to her chest forehead pressed to the thin cotton of her Disney Princess night-dress. She snivelled again biting her lip against the sounds she made, sniffing up and swallowing trying to dislodge the lump in her throat.

Up above she could hear scraping, footsteps, muffled voices talking back and forth but she did not move.

They'd told her about strangers at school an' the nice policewoman had given them a talk about staying safe, about who they talked to an' about being careful when out. Since then she'd tried to be a good girl 'cos only naughty girls got taken but nobody had told her that the bad man would come into her house, into her room, put his hand over her nose and mouth and hold her so tightly that she couldn't breath or struggle.

She hadn't known anymore until she'd woken up in the cellar. The dark place had terrified her more than the man and she'd screamed herself hoarse. Shouting and crying out for her mother but no one had come not even the black-clothed man who'd taken her from her bed. She was alone.

Eventually, exhausted, she had crawled into the corner where she now sat unable to stop her body shivering with the cold and fear the hope that someone would rescue her gone.

A bolt grating in its metal bed slid back. She shrank inward trying to make herself smaller, throat tight and her eyes screwed shut. If she couldn't see… but a moan threatened and her breaths came harsh and shallow. In fearful panic she clamped her own small hand over her mouth; if she didn't make a noise, if she could hide in the shadow...

The door creaked and footsteps sounded on the wooden treads then on the stone floor getting nearer and nearer. Terror clutched tightly at her heart, its painful pounding shaking her body and at that moment she knew that she must have been a really bad girl because the man was coming for her.

_"In the name of the father, his fallen son and the spirits of hell."  
_

The black mantel flowed, its folds swishing together as the man genuflected touching his forehead, breastbone and then left and right shoulders in a mockery of the holy gestures.

_ "I believe in God the Almighty Creator of Heaven and Hell and in Satan his only true son…"_

In his left hand he held the rosary a bead pressed between his finger and thumb the reversed cross dangling from the chain flashing obsidian as the stones swung in the flickering candlelight.

_"…I believe in the forgiveness of sins, the restoration of the fallen son to life everlasting…"_

The man had learnt the words by heart, repeating them over and over until they became part of him so that he didn't have to struggle to remember the new order as he had the old. He moved to the next bead and began the 'Our Father.'

His mother had given him the rosary for his first communion. Loving her religion more than him she had insisted on prayers three times a day, beaten him when he stumbled over his scripture and made him stand for hours in the cold back kitchen arms folded behind him, back arched painfully. He was supposed to be contemplating the Mysteries surround the Christ but as his body trembled with the stress of standing and his stomach growled with hunger all he could think of was his hatred for her.

He remembered the dark arousing joy when her spare tones reading from the leather-bound bible had stopped suddenly and how he'd stood over her as she'd died, her holy heart in its unloving piety abandoning life at his feet. He had done nothing to help her and it was then that she'd seen, she had realised what she'd created as he'd shown her his true self, curling his lips in a cruel triumphant smile as the light left her frightened eyes. She knew then that she was going to hell for the monster she'd created.

Hating her still and all those like her who professed a similar fervent sanctimonious faith the man had worked long and hard to get to the position where he could exact his revenge.

His fingers moved again, _"I denounce Mary and damn her among women…."_ He raised his gaze from the chaplet to the young figure laid in front of him as he spoke. The girl seemed smaller than before as if the fear had somehow diminished what she was. Her immature body, naked now lay inert on the table. There were no restraints, he hadn't needed any, the sedative he'd given her held her pliant but awake. Her face slack but her eyes, wide with terror, were sparkling with tears.

The ritual he was planning could be performed with conventional elements, with standard components but he had eschewed the mainstream a long time ago in pursuit of dominion and power. He didn't regret the use of the child, of the children it would need because his Lord not only demanded excellence but deserved it.

_ "Glory be to the Father and to his son Lucifer and to the dark spirits released. As was in the beginning is now and ever shall be, world without end, Amen."_

The bead slipped through his fingers to be replaced with another.

_"Oh my Lord Satan, forgive us our sins against you. Come forth from the fires of Hell and lead us into Heaven to your rightful place and let us take ours at your side."_

Another bead passed and he continued on, lost in the litany, in the power of its words and the glory of its meaning.

Six more times he spoke the devotions as the black candles burnt lower guttering in the molten wax pooling at the base of their wicks. Completing the circle of the rosary he laid the chain reverently aside and stepped forward looming over the frightened child.

_ "In the name of the father, his fallen son and the spirits of hell. Amen."_

The five acolytes around the table knelt as one and the man filled with the righteousness of hell picked up the double-sided knife, the Athame to claim the destiny that he believed was his.

The girl screamed only once, a long pitiful cry of pain and fear before it cut off abruptly her windpipe severed in one sure stroke.

**Chapter 1**

"Dean come get your brother off me."

John bent and attempted to prise open the fingers of his youngest from where they'd fastened around his leg.

"Dean!"

He looked up and into the expressive green eyes of his firstborn. A myriad of conflicting feelings, love and pride, fear, anger and betrayal glowed in their depths. John had the decency to feel guilty and turned away from their soundless accusation.

It had only been four days since he'd returned from a particularly difficult hunt involving a poltergeist. He'd left the boys thinking he would only be gone two days but it had ended up being a week and now he was leaving them again.

"Take us with you Dad, we'll be good, I promise, cross my heart."

Sammy snivelled, his misery apparent. Tears smeared over his face, lips pouting, turned down as he tightened his grip around his father's leg.

"Pleeeease Dad."

Softening slightly John bent ruffled Sam's hair and cupped his little chin with his callused fingers bringing his young sons eyes up to meet his own.

"I can't this time Sammy I don't know where I'll be and you like it here with Pastor Jim."

"I _hate _Pastor Jim."

"SAMMY!" There was a warning in John's voice. He didn't tolerate rudeness at anytime and especially not in front of other people. "You know better than that… apologise."

Sam refused to look up at him and instead buried his head in his father's thigh his too long hair falling forward partly obscuring is young pinched face. He gripped tighter and no apology came.

"Sam, you apologise NOW..."

John got no further because Dean appeared behind his brother bending and whispering, gently unwrapping the small tensed fingers from the material of his father's dirt spattered jeans. The older boy pulled the younger back against his chest and a small wobbly voice punctuated with several sniffs apologised.

"I's sorry Past'r Jim."

There were no words for him but John was used to the boys excluding him. Dean rarely initiated conversation with his father or anyone except Sam and he certainly wasn't the lively talkative child he'd been at four before Mary died. John swallowed quickly clamping down the emotions, which always arose unbidden when he thought of his wife. He lifted his bag from the driveway.

Usually John had no cause for complaint his two were good boys. It did concern him that they were on their own so much and John didn't like leaving them but he felt he had no choice and they nearly always had a sitter. Besides he'd also made damned sure they could fend for themselves.

Dean especially was turning into a good little soldier, skilled with a knife and a he could handle a gun like a grown man. Sammy was a little more reluctant but he was young yet and with a little more discipline and training he would be fine.

John had debated leaving his sons on their own again but Jim's place was on his way and he trusted the man to look out for his boys. He was one of the few men that John trusted completely, Caleb, Joshua, Bill Harville and Jim.

The Pastor had rescued John both physically and mentally and really he owed his life to the man. John had been hunting on his own for a year, obsessively researching, keeping notes and gathering together an arsenal of weapons that any Unit Commander would have been proud of. He wasn't oblivious to the hazardous nature of the work and he didn't disregard the danger but by focusing on the hunt and letting it fill his waking moments he'd kept himself going, kept himself away from the knife-edge of his grief.

John, leaving the boys with yet another sitter, had set out to exorcise a farmhouse inhabited by a bitter ghost who'd constantly hidden, moved and thrown objects. It had gone bad when he'd been caught in the shoulder by a kitchen knife launched by the angered spirit.

Jim had found John bleeding profusely and cursing fit to bust as he tried to unscrew the lid off a salt can with numb fingers. The hunter had dispatched the ghost quickly and efficiently, finding, salting and burning the bones while John had sat hand clutched against the wound, blood seeping between his fingers.

The Pastor, John had been surprised at that one, had taken the injured hunter back to the motel and on discovering Dean and baby Sam in the room had loaded them all into the car and driven them back to the mission. Putting the boys to bed in soft, clean white sheets the man retrieved a bottle of peroxide, some dental floss and a needle and stitched up John's wound. He'd then spent the rest of the night talking with John, explaining and listening and then offering a haven.

He was the first hunter John had met. Missouri had hinted at such people but had not given him any more information so John had gone it alone. It surprised him at how extensive a network there was and that he'd never come across hunters before. Jim had introduced John to a few men, including Bill Harville who himself was a family man but part of John shied away from company and for the most he kept himself to himself.

John had stayed six months with Pastor Jim, learnt a tremendous amount and had his heart gladdened by the sound of his sons laughing. It was the closest John'd felt to anyone since the army and Mary. Eventually, with a lot of patience, Jim had got inside John's defences. They'd talked for hours; nights of talking and drinking and more talking and eventually John had let his guard down to the point where he'd cried for the first time since Mary had died.

Jim had sat with him, not speaking or offering comfort, somehow he'd known that John wouldn't accept that kind of help but it _had_ helped and John was grateful to his new friend for understanding. It had assuaged but not banished the hollow feeling inside him and John had been able to continue hunting with a less frantic if not less obsessive frame of mind.

Since then he'd continued to hunt alone but now with the knowledge that he had someone at the end of a phone who would drop everything if he needed him to. Jim had also offered to find a foster home for the boys but John had given an implacable, "NO!"

He'd taken on board Jim's arguments about stability and consistency and the difficulty and dangers of taking two young boys on the road but John had flatly refused to contemplate even a short placement.

Sam and Dean were his and the only place he could keep them safe was with him and now five years later he'd never regretted that decision. It didn't mean that it hadn't been difficult or that he'd deliberately put his sons in the way of danger. He hadn't, didn't mean to leave them on their own so much but it happened and that was why they were now both staring accusingly at him for leaving them with Jim. John was not above feeling guilty and it came out not in hugs and promises but in a gruff, tough love way.

"You mind Dean now Sammy, do as your brother says and Dean..."

John felt a lump forming in his throat as he stared down at the two figures the one tall for his age, shoulders broadening, arms draped protectively around his younger brother. The other wiping his face with his sleeve and trying to look brave despite his hiccupping distress.

"...Look out for Sammy and make sure he does his reading every night."

"Yes sir."

Dean refused to look him in the eye and that annoyed John.

"Sam's your responsibility Dean. I don't want any slip-ups…"

Jim stepped into his sight-line, "They'll be fine John, I'll take care of them. Say goodbye to your Dad boys."

"Bye Dad." Sammy's thin voice piped up but Dean remained stubbornly silent. John sighed threw his bag into the back seat of the Impala and creaked the door shut. He shook hands with Jim and both men nodded a silent understanding. John was placing his most precious things in Jim's care.

"They'll be fine John, Martha's already baking a pie." John grimaced a smile, Jim's housekeeper was notorious for spoiling the boys whenever they visited and he quickly turned sliding into the worn driver's seat before he changed his mind about leaving them. A little softness wouldn't hurt and he would train them a little harder when he got back to make sure. He gunned the engine.

Gravel spurted as John pressed the accelerator and the car eased away from the driveway. Glancing into his rear view mirror John saw Dean was still standing his arm around Sam watching the car. He continued to watch as John turned the corner.


	2. Chapter 2

John killed the Impala's engine with a quick flick of his wrist. He'd been driving for twelve hours straight, only stopping briefly for fuel after dropping the boys off at Jim's. He'd not eaten since the day before and only drunk the stale brackish water left in his canteen from his previous hunt. He needed sleep but first he'd talk to Bill.

The car door creaked as he pushed it open. He made yet another mental note to oil it but somehow he never remembered until it creaked again. He loved the car, he'd bought it when he and Mary had been going steady and had spent many hours lovingly restoring it. Mary had joked that he loved that car more than her, which wasn't true but it was a close second best until the boys came along.

Pulling himself from the driver's seat John was stretching the stiffness from his shoulders when a piece of white paper fluttered to the muddy ground. He stooped slowly to retrieve it and smiled as he realised that it was the picture Sammy had drawn him as a present.

John loved his sons fiercely. Sometimes he caught himself watching them while they slept, Dean with his smattering of freckles and Sam with his cute little nose. He could see his wife in them both her delicacy and toughness and it brought a lump to his throat every time.

A picture of Dean's reproachful face as he'd driven away came unbidden but he pushed it away. Since his wife's death John had found it difficult to relate to his eldest. Dean was a changed child, silent and watchful. He wasn't disobedient in fact the opposite. He did everything asked of him, obeyed John without question and looked after his little brother better than any sitter but sometimes in his darker moments John wished for the mischievous four year old bundle that he'd swung up into his arms for a cuddle.

Slamming the car door John, in an unconscious movement, checked that his gun was in place. Feeling its reassuringly solid presence lying snug up against his spine he adjusted the collar of his leather jacket and crossed the empty lot to the door of the Roadhouse.

Opening the screen John paused hand flat on the wooden panel. He hated the bar the very idea of a place for hunters made a mockery of the philosophy that Bill had drummed into him. 'Rule number one, we do what we do and we shut up about it.' The credo had suited John fine. He had no inclination to discuss his business outside of the few people he trusted and the rest of the hunting community he viewed with as deep a suspicion as the creatures that he hunted.

John wouldn't have been here now if he hadn't owed Bill Harville.

*********

The bar was noisy; the jukebox blaring Country and the pinball game pinging maniacally as a massive beefcake of a man dwarfed the machine pressing the two buttons at the side with rapid violence. Paying no attention John crossed to the bar and received a big smile from Ellen, Bill's wife.

"John, good to see ya. What'll it be?"

He shook his head and Ellen immediately dropped the act.

"Bill's out back."

He nodded, followed the bar around to the glass-panelled door and exited from the main room. The Harville's kitchen was two openings down and by the time John had turned into it the noise of the bar had receded to a minor buzz.

"Bill." He nodded at the man sitting at the table.

"John." Bill nodded back and indicated for John to sit.

Harville was not a big man but he exuded strength. With intelligent sharp features and clipped greying blonde hair he looked every inch a bank manger but his mild appearance belied the hard steel of the hunter underneath. John has seen the man take out a nest of vampires virtually single handily and he knew that Bill didn't suffer fools gladly.

"What's so bad that you couldn't talk about it on the phone?"

John sat and Harville slid several photos across the table to him. John blanched and felt the bile rising in his throat. The first picture was of a small figure, a child of no more than Sammy's age, six or seven.

"She was alive…" Bill's voice was grim. "…they cut her windpipe so …she couldn't scream."

John's hand shook as he viewed the picture again. It looked like the body had been skinned. Apart from the head, arms and legs it was red-raw and he could see the muscles, veins and organs.

A glass of whiskey slammed onto the table in front of him, John took it and swallowed the strong liquid down in one go.

"There are more…" Bill took a swig of his own whiskey and poured a double shot into his glass and then another into John's.

Shuffling through each of the photos, six in all John took in the details, pushing aside his emotions to deal clinically with the facts. Each showed a child the windpipe cut, the skin peeled from their backs and chests and a stab wound to the heart.

"He didn't need to have stabbed them the shock and blood loss alone would be enough to kill them."

John steadied his breathing trying to bring his thoughts away from the atrocities and focus on the practicalities. "Where?"

"Nelson, New York State."

"And what makes this one for us rather than some nut job serial killer?"

"It was a ritual."

John looked up at his friend. There was a fine line between the observances of a disturbed mind and a satanic ritual but Bill was obviously sure.

"They found traces of Datura on the soles of their feet hence no sign of a struggle and the knife wounds are consistent with a Athame a double bladed dagger and gut feeling."

John's eyebrows raised at the mention of Datura.

"Witchcraft?"

The herb was better known as Devil's Apple and was poisonous but used in spells and by rubbing on the skin to induce sleep or at least a state of calm lethargy. That was how the killer had kept the children quiet that and the slit…John didn't want to think about it.

"Could be…" Bill rubbed his hand over his face eyes staring ahead lost in thought for a minute, "…but witches these days don't usually go in for human sacrifices. Animals yes but humans …it causes too many complications."

"Is that what you think this is? A Sacrifice?" John was surprised he'd only come across witches a couple of times in six years of hunting and they'd proved petty, self-serving and concerned with the mundane rather than the arcane.

"I don't know John, things don't add up. If it is witchcraft then it's pretty hardcore." The man pulled a hand across his tired face. "I've never come across anything like this before but I do know that six children are dead, killed in the same way and I can't rest easy on this one."

The theory was pretty thin but John was with Bill he had no qualms in investigating the deaths either way, nobody who did that to a child deserved to get away with it but if it was ritualistic then it must have a purpose.

"Why? What would they …skin them for? A knife through the heart yeah but the skinning…"

"Who knows John, who knows." Bill sat again shaking his head then resting it wearily in his hands. "I've been trying to research what it could have been….and I've found sacrifices, yes but nothing…nothing…like this." He took a breath visibly moved. "She…she was blonde…the first one."

"DADDY, DADDY, SAY YES." A small figure hurtled into the room and launched herself onto Bill's lap. John immediately turned the photos over and shuffled them into some kind of pile.

"Daddy wanna story."

Ellen appeared at the doorway a helpless look of apology on her face.

"Jobeth Harville Daddy's busy."

The child pouted and turned on John.

"Uncle John won't mind will you Uncle John." She gave him the full blast of her pleading eyes. It brought a smile to John's lips. Bill scraped his chair back and stood the little girl clinging onto him like a monkey.

"No Uncle John won't mind." And without looking at John he carried his daughter from the room. Her blonde hair cascading in shining ripples as she snuggled into her father's neck and then John understood why this case was affecting Bill so much.

John took another swig of whiskey. Jo was a year younger than Sammy but much more of a handful a firecracker of a blonde and the same age as the child in the photo, John could see now that for Bill this was personal.

"So where do you want to start?" John sat at the motel table rubbing an oiled cloth over the disassembled parts of his handgun. They'd left the roadhouse soon after first light John following Bill at a discrete distance; a necessary precaution to avoid arousing suspicion.

Bored hick cops with nothing better to do often targeted cars with out-of-state plates and two together would be too damned enticing; luring even the most indolent officer away from his coffee and donuts.

Both hunters had experienced the officiousness of the petty bureaucracy in small town law enforcement at one time or another and both were keen to avoid the time and cost it took to circumnavigate 'Official Procedures'.

Bill had already signed them into Nelson's only motel and mumbled something about food as he exited past the newly arrived hunter. John dumped his duffle onto the far bed and retrieved the half bottle of whisky from its depths.

That had been an hour and a half ago and he'd had begun to get anxious as well as hungry by the time Bill returned carrying a neon pink striped take-out bag from what John presumed was a local diner. 'Bonker's Burger Bar' arced over a cartoon picture of a wide-mouthed boy biting into a giant Burger. John made a face, was it his imagination or did the kid look like Dean.

"Got talking to the waitress…." Bill placed a neatly wrapped burger on the table in front of John, "…seems she was a cousin to the mother of one of the children." He sat heavily staring at the food in his hand but not eating. "She cried."

Sliding and clicking the gun parts into place John was silent. What could he say? Nothing was going to 'make it better', he and Bill weren't going to wave a magic wand and he knew that even if the relatives could find out what happened or understand why, nothing was going to fill that black hole inside them. He snapped the last piece into his gun, checked the mechanism and pushed the clip into place.

"Could start with the Coroner, see if they got any further forensics …" Setting the gun aside John ignored the burger and leafed through a series of papers which lay strewn over the table in front of him "or the Sheriff …a Sheriff Johansson…. "

"S'as good a place to start as any." Bill didn't sound enthusiastic but John reckoned that perhaps enthusiasm in this case was probably not what was required.

"…and Jim called."

"Oh?" Bill's face shifted from slack absorption to keen interest.

"Yeah… The closest ritual he found is that of the Virgin Parchment,"

The Pastor had an extensive occult library housed in the basement of his church. John wasn't taking any bets on the fact that the Church Council had no idea it was there.

John pulled out another piece of paper and referred to his notes, "… The ritual requires that a new-born calf is killed by slitting its throat and letting the blood like preparing Kosher meat. Then the carcass is skinned and the skin is cured and prepared for use in a summoning ritual…they write on it apparently…"

Looking back up at his partner across the table John continued, "…but he couldn't find any reference to human skin being used for it." There was another moment's silence as John scanned the page in his hand. "And there's a ton of lore on shapeshifters and Skinwalkers using the skin of victims to transform but nothing about them only using part … " here John frowned, tailing off, the image too disturbing to voice.

Bill grunted. "We can't rule anything out."


	3. Chapter 3

There was an edge to the cold air the next morning as John sat on the end of his bed lacing his too tight dress shoes. He felt like crap, he'd only gotten a couple of hours sleep and that combined with all the driving in the last few days meant he was beat but the job especially this job couldn't wait.

Over a breakfast of cold pie left from the night before John and Bill decided in the end to call on the victims' families first and tackle the Sheriff later. It would give them the chance to check out the locality in daylight and to get a feel for the case without being influenced by the police investigation.

Ryan Vincent, the second victim had lived along a wide leafy street in a small but pleasant two storey house. The tight collar of the button down shirt dug into John's neck as they walked up to the front door. He ran a finger around between the skin and the stiff material but it didn't help. He still felt like he was being strangled. On the other hand Bill looked like he'd been born in a collar and tie and the dark jacket sitting smartly on his shoulders hung crease free making him look every inch the agent he was impersonating.

John checked the notes. The boy's body had been found on the edge of a protected swamp area to the north of the town two days after he'd been reported missing by his father.

Mr Vincent opened the door; he looked the same as the photo John had seen except that the man standing before him looked wretchedly tired and John felt a deep sympathy for him, father to father. Loss was hard but to lose a child in this way must be unbearable.

Bill flipped out his badge.

"FBI…I wonder if we could ask you a few questions."

The man looked bewildered as if Bill's words didn't make sense. He glanced behind him as if looking for some kind of affirmation but then he nodded and backed away holding the door open for them.

"Oh…yes, yes come in."

Mr Vincent led them into a large comfortable living room with two chairs and a sofa, a TV and in the corner a chest of toys spilling its contents haphazardly over the floor. A large yellow dump-truck lay on its side next to several cars and a ragged looking rabbit.

John blanched a lump forming in constricting his throat. Sammy had been pestering him for a truck exactly like the one he was now staring at. It was like a blow to his stomach and John had to forcibly wrench his attention away pushing back the picture of Sam's hopeful hazel eyes before he could regain his composure.

A thin but attractive woman joined them, Mrs Vincent, the mother John presumed.

"Are you up to answering a few questions." Bill was sympathetic but there was a firmness that implied that they didn't really have a choice.

"We told the police all we know." Mr. Vincent looked at his wife but she kept her eyes down fingers entwined in a tissue.

When was the last time you saw Ryan?"

"It was about four," It was Mrs Vincent that answered in a wavering thin voice, "He'd not long got home from school and I was…" she dabbed at her eyes with the scrunched tissue and swallowed hard before continuing, "I was in the kitchen. I saw him riding his bike, it was red, he got it for his birthday last month." She swallowed again. "We told him he could ride it in the yard but he was not to go on the sidewalk with it."

"He's a…" Mr Vincent stopped himself, " …was a good boy, he wouldn't have gone through the yard gate…not without telling us…he wouldn't."

"And you saw no one else?" Bill turned his attention back to the mother. She shook her head. "Not in the yard. Mr Forester came home from work, I think I saw his car. He's our next door neighbour."

"And there's no reason or anybody you can think of that might have wanted to hurt Ryan."

Again the boy's mother shook her head, shoulders shaking, as she pushed the tissue up under her nose.

"No." Mr Vincent put his arm around his wife and John caught Bill's eye communicating that it was probably time to leave.

"Before we go Mr Vincent, I wonder if my partner and I might take a look around your yard."

Leaving his wife Mr. Vincent rose and showed them through the kitchen to the back door. Bringing up the rear John glanced around. It felt to him like the life had gone from the house. It looked like a home, all the component parts were present but they lay discarded, discontinued and John doubted if they would ever be taken up again.

Yellow tape was threaded across the entrance gate, torn now and flapping in the light breeze. It was the only indicator that anything untoward had happened in the tidy, worn garden. John descended the three steps from the porch to the grass, eyes scanning for details, any small anomaly, which might give them a clue as to what had happened to the boy. A soccer ball lay abandoned to one side and a bike, presumably Ryan's was propped up against the chain fence abandoned, front wheel bent at an awkward angle.

John found nothing, the ground was too dry and too disturbed to decipher any prints and anyway a dozen fat cops had probably trampled it with size 14 boots. Satisfied that he'd missed nothing he turned back to find Bill alone on the porch.

"Anything?"

Shaking his head John joined his partner and rather than go back through the house they rounded the corner and followed a narrow paved path between the houses back to the car.

Opening the passenger door John paused noticing a green Ford parked in the driveway of the next door house. "Maybe we should go see Mr Forester, the neighbour." It seemed prudent to talk to the only other person who could have seen Ryan before his abduction. Bill nodded his assent and John let the car door swing shut.

The owner of the Ford turned out to be a very personable widower, his house was immaculate and he offered them tea. Bill declined for both of them getting right to the point asking if the neighbour had seen anything on the day Ryan went missing.

"No not really." The man sat on the very edge of the chair as if he was afraid to crease the cushioned seat.

"How do you mean, not really?" John wanted qualification, 'not really' in his book meant the man had seen something. "Mr. Forester what did you see?"

"Only the Patrol Car but that's always cruising past. It's part of Sheriff Johansson's initiative to _'Stop Crime before It Starts'_." He emphasised the last phrase and John got the impression that it was a slogan that the residents of Nelson heard a lot.

"How often do they drive by?"

"Couple of times a day but they don't always come down the street."

Mr. Forester had nothing else to add and declining the cake offered they left him straightening the cushions where they'd sat and drove back into town.

They fared no better interviewing the other victims' families. No one had heard or seen anything untoward, no strangers had been seen, either on the day or in the days or weeks previous to the abductions and none of the children had expressed any fears or worries.

John came away thoroughly depressed how the hell were they going to find who or what killed these kids without even the sniff of a clue.

"Follow my lead." Bill lowered his voice as they approached the heavy glass doors of the Sheriff's department past two large posters showing a cheerful, grinning Sheriff, no doubt Johansson, shaking hands with a young girl and declaring that he was _'The man for the job.'_

Looking up John noted that the structure was large, old, maybe turn of the century and brick built. At some point, probably in the 60's, it had been modernised with new toughened glass windows and an entrance, which lent itself more to a shopping mall than a municipal building.

Shivering in the air conditioned coolness of the interior John waited impatiently for the receptionist to look up, he was already fingering the small leather case which held his fake FBI badge. He'd impersonated officials before but had always pulled up short at being a G-man. Earlier he'd been fine, in front of civilians, but here in the 'Lion's Den' he felt uncomfortable. Bill it seemed had no such qualms and confidently announced himself and John as Agents Stengal and Mantle respectively; John prayed that no one was a baseball fanatic.

Apparently Sheriff Johansson was busy. The middle-aged woman behind the desk informed them of the fact, although she barely acknowledge their presence, only looking up from her computer monitor when Bill declared that he would wait.

Ignoring her irritated protests Bill strode across to the row of leatherette covered chairs and sat. John followed sinking down next to his hunting partner scanning the immediate area checking the entrances and exits in case they needed to make a swift escape.

The main access through which he and Bill had come was to his right and on the far wall facing him in marked contrast to the bright modernist main entrance were two dark old-fashioned doors. One had a brass plaque announcing it was a 'Conference Room' and the other was ominously blank. Two other, similar doors to his left, flanked the grand staircase which flourished its way upwards, separating into two after the initial rise and continuing higher in opposing branches. It was all very impressive for such a small town.

The receptionist had been busy and John had barely had time to make a mental map of the Foyer when a broad, red-faced Deputy, as his badge declared, approached them.

"Agents Stengal, Mantle?" Both John and Bill rose.

"Deputy Moines." They shook hands each in turn. "Sheriff Johansson is busy right now."

"So we were told." Giving nothing-away Bill stood his ground.

"I'm here to see if I can facilitate you in some way."

The Deputy said the word 'facilitate' as if it was something unsanitary. John wanted to punch the man's damned depreciating face in. His hand curled but Bill carried on as if the officer hadn't given the word any emphasis.

"You can by letting us talk to the organ grinder."

Bill's face remained expressionless as if he hadn't insulted the man. Face to face the Deputy and the seasoned hunter remained locked until John saw that discretion reminded the local official that his remit was not to aggravate the visitors but to placate them.

"As I said the Sheriff is busy, dealing with a rather pressing matter…"

Bill interrupted. "Six dead children is rather more than a pressing matter don't you think?"

There was no answer to that and the Deputy admitted defeat with a "I'll tell the Sheriff you're waiting," as he walked away.

Five minutes later they were in the Sheriff's office facing the man himself over an ornate and clutter free desk.

"FBI, Agents Stengal and Mantle." Both John and Bill showed their fake ID's, flipping them open and closed with practised dexterity.

Sheriff Johansson didn't offer his hand or offer a seat to the two hunters but he did rise from his leather chair. He was slender with light brown hair greying at the temples. The almost handsome face was pleasant but devoid of expression, however the slight press of the lips gave away that the Sheriff was far from happy. John put him in his late forties and despite being smaller than Bill and John he radiated authority. It filled the room intimidating the silence before he spoke.

"What can I do for you gentlemen?"

It was an innocent enough phrase, a pleasantry which no doubt tripped off his tongue as easily as 'good morning' but there was a guarded look in his eye and John decided that Sheriff Johansson was not as outgoing or friendly as the election posters outside the building declared.

Bill came straight to the point. "I want to see all the documentation pertaining to the Child Homicides. Then I want you to brief me on any developments."

For a moment the Sheriff's poise was ruffled. He'd obviously been expecting Bill to ask a few desultory questions before honing in on the details. The hunter's demand to see the actual files wrong footed him. Recovering quickly Johansson leaned forward and pressed a button on the intercom panel.

"Deputy Moines."

"Yes Sheriff." The sound was tinny but clear.

"Can you bring all the doc…."

"With copies." Bill interjected.

The Sheriff eyed the implacable hunter. "…the documents, _with copies_ on case 49…in to my office asap."

"Yes Sheriff." The voice at the other end, unmistakably Deputy Moines, was full of question and twenty minutes later when he brought in two folders both neatly labelled he was unable to stop himself glancing furtively at John and Bill. John enjoyed the man's predicament. The Deputy obviously liked to 'be in the know' and it was killing him to be excluded.

All parties waited for Deputy Moines to leave and then following Bill's lead John settled himself into one of the stiff upright chairs arranged in front of the imposing desk. Johansson had re-seated himself leaning back, hands clasped in front of his lean body, composure restored.

Bill thumbed through the folder stopping to read at several points before looking up directly at the Sheriff.

"Is there any indication of a link between the victims besides the …way they died?"

"Nothing."

"Were there any similarities in the way they were abducted.

"No, One was taken from her bed. One was on the way to school as far as we can make out she was walking with her friends and one of the mothers. One minute she was there and the next gone, no one saw anything. One was playing in his back yard on his bike."

The Sheriff was confident, almost smug John thought as Johansson continued list the disappearances.

"Another was also in the back yard but it was a different time of day and we know for a fact that he regularly squeezed his way out through a gap in the fence. I'd talked to his mother only the day before after one of my officers found him wandering down by the lake. The other two disappeared on different days in different parts of the town. One was shopping downtown with her mother and the other was at the park with a sitter. So no I'd say there were no links."

"How can you be so sure."

"Because Agent Stengal I know how to do my job."

Bill refused to be intimidated.

"There must be some common elements in a community this small."

"Well there are the obvious connections. They all went to the same school but then so do 614 other elementary kids."

"Were any of them particular friends?"

"Sally Kemble and Naomi Richards were. They did the usual rounds, went to each other's houses, the park … but there's no indication that the three boys and the other girl were anything more than acquaintances but as you said it's a small town, everybody knows everybody."

"What about their parents?"

"The parents are distraught." Indignation blazed in the Sheriff's eyes.

John bit his lip knowing that at least to be true having spent the morning experiencing the painful distress of the grieving parents but then again someone clever enough to kidnap six children and not be seen could easily lie their way through a simple interview. You don't need to be an Oscar Winner to squeeze a few tears and look sad.

"I've no doubt they are." Bill said evenly. "But we have to consider the possibility that any of them..."

"Just what are you implying…"

"That." Bill stared the man straight down. "Should be obvious….even to you."

John studied the Sheriff carefully while Bill continued to throw questions. There was something about the man that set his hackles rising. Johansson was lying, he was sure but John couldn't pin down about exactly what. The answers the Sheriff gave were what John expected, straightforward and truthful to the facts but the Sheriff was giving no more. He was being deliberately circumspect.

It was that caution that John found strange. He'd come across inter-departmental rivalry before, where certain sections of the Law Enforcement community withheld information from what they saw as outside interference it wasn't uncommon but in cases like these where children were involved, usually the barriers came down and jurisdiction wasn't a problem. It could be that Johansson couldn't get past the FBI 'muscling in' on _his_ case but John wasn't convinced.

He still wasn't convinced when Deputy Moines still oozing charm and political correctness showed them out.


	4. Chapter 4

John slammed the door shut behind him rattling the metal rings on the motel's thin hideously patterned curtains. Two hours they'd spent in that cheerless office and they'd got precisely nowhere. On the surface Sheriff Johansson had been co-operation itself but in real terms he'd given them nothing, no speculation, no theories, no leads.

Thumping the thick case file onto the cracked tabletop John pulled at his tie. "I need a coffee. Then a shower…no a shower first," he shuddered. "I've got a little too much dirt on me…"

Bill barked out a laugh. "Yeah that bullsh**t'll get ya every time."

XXX

When John returned to the main room, towelling himself dry, the smell of coffee was bitter and strong. He poured himself a large mug full and sipped it. He'd taken his coffee black since Mary died, not by choice but because there never seemed to be any milk left once Dean stopped using formula for Sam. It either, when he remembered to buy some, went on the boy's breakfast cereal or shakes or anything that wasn't his coffee. He nodded over at the pile of paper Bill was sifting through.

"Anything?"

"Not much more than we already knew." Sighing Bill turned another sheet. "You get some shut-eye John, I'm going to go through this lot one more time."

XXX

"John…" His name penetrated the layers of sleep and John stirred not really ready to be pulled fully from his slumber, "JOHN, pass the map." Running his hand through his tousled hair the younger hunter blinked momentarily disorientated. "John, I think I got something." That woke John fully.

"Yeah….What?"

Bill by this time had retrieved the map for himself, spread it over the table and was searching for a pen under the strewn papers.

"It's just a hunch…I was reading over the evidence about the Datura…if this is witchcraft then maybe…" He left the sentence hanging as he concentrated on the map.

"Maybe….maybe WHAT." John pushed himself from the bed straightening his rumpled clothes.

"Read out the map references for me." Bill shoved his spider-written notes at his partner, "I wanna mark where the bodies were found."

"You think that's significant?"

Bill didn't answer.

"Bill?"

"Just read."

John read and Bill carefully ran his fingers over colours and folds of the chart until he pinpointed the reference and noted it with a cross. Once all six were marked he stood stretching the crick in his spine rubbing his hand on the back of his neck as he stared at the black crosses.

"Well?" John was still at a loss as to what his partner was thinking. Had the hunter seen some kind of pattern?

Suddenly Bill started forward and grabbed a folder. He laid it across the map lining up two of the crosses. Swiftly he drew a line from cross to cross. Then he moved the folder and joined two others. When he'd finished it was obvious to both men what they were looking at.

"It's a six pointed star." John turned to Bill. "A Star of David?"

"Kinda, but I think, if I'm right, in this context it's a Seal of Solomon. King Solomon is supposed to have had a seal-ring which had the name of God engraved onto it. It gave him power over spirits and other evil creatures. According to Arab writers the seal was in the shape of a six-pointed star."

"You don't say." John turned back to gaze at the black lines scored across the map. "So how does that help us?"

"Because if you burn certain oils and incense in the centre they say you can attract spirits and those spirits can manifest by using the smoke from the fire."

"A summoning, the sonofabitch is doing a summoning."

Bill nodded his confirmation. "That would be my guess and he's using the skin…"

"…to write the ritual." John finished his friend's sentence. "But why human skin?"

Bill shrugged, "My best guess is that he's not going for you're average spirit but for some heavy duty badass."

"Then we gotta stop him."

"And now we know where." Bill indicated, finger pointing at the centre of the drawn seal, at the Sheriff's Office. He looked up at John,

"Why lay the bodies out in the pattern of a summoning circle, if you not going to use it."

Bill was right. The Sheriff's Department was dead centre and there wasn't much else around it apart from retail outlets, diners and a park. Plenty of comings and going during the day for cover and no one to see or hear weird noises at night, apart from the duty cops and the drunks in the cells making strange noises of their own.

John went cold the blood draining from his face as his brain made connections. "Sonofabitch." His hands went up to push his hair back.

"What?" Bill turned on him.

"It's the Sheriff."

John knew there'd been something off about the man. Both he and Bill had surmised that Johansson was lying but there was nothing concrete and his partner had put it down to an innate officiousness but what if the Sheriff was hiding something and that something was the murder of six children.

"He told us nothing and all these case notes tell is that the inquiry is going nowhere." Bill was nodding his agreement. "The guy's in a prime position to stall any investigation 'cause," John swallowed. "…who's gonna suspect the Sheriff."

The more John thought about it the more it felt right, he had a gut instinct for these things and who knew how many other cops were in the coven. Crap.

"The damned Patrol Car. That's how he got them away."

The utter simplicity of it stunned John but the horror of how easy it had been for the Sheriff to snatch the six children made him sick to his stomach.

"Okay so we know who, why and where but we still don't know the hell when." John shoved the wooden chair in frustration sending it scraping and skidding across the floor.

The seat rocked on its back but even though Bill was staring at its swaying legs he wasn't seeing it. John not wanting to break his partner's train of thought held his tongue although his mind was a whirlwind of questions.

At last Bill spoke.

"Do you have that personnel data."

"What?" That surprised John.

"Those records your friend at the Police Department got. Is there one on Johansson?"

The hunter strode to his duffle, hauled it up yanking on the handles and extracted a blue pocket file. This he handed over to his partner.

"What's the date today?" Bill glanced up at John waiting for the answer.

"The 16th."

"Well…" Bill grinned, "…I think we have when."

John stared at Bill now thoroughly puzzled. "What?…how?"

"If he is the leader, the high priest of a Coven then his birthday is a significant date, a date when important rituals other than those already on the Satanic Calendar are performed. If the Sheriff's birthday is sometime this month then I'd say it's more than a good bet that's when its gonna happen."

Rifling through the records Bill scanned page after page. John's heart beat hard in his chest but he reigned in his excitement. If his friend was right about this then they might have a chance to stop the ritual, and rip the murdering sonofabitch's lungs out.

"Yatzi " Bill brandished a sheet in triumph. " Johansson's birthday is the 17th. If I'm right then its more than probably that the sonofabitch is gonna perform the summoning tomorrow."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Crouched John was aware that Bill was right behind him keeping watch. He'd already disabled the alarm surprised at how unsophisticated the system was and relieved that he didn't have to spend precious time tracing a secondary network.

John twisted his wrist as the lock pick met resistance, pushed and then grinned with satisfaction when the tumblers clicked into position and the rear exit door of the Sheriff's Department sprang open.

Johansson had spent the day in his office. John had shadowed the man closely from the moment he'd left his pristine weather-boarded house to the time he'd entered the municipal building having observed a morning coffee pick-up ritual at May's Diner and collected a newspaper at the stand.

It had all seemed very leisurely and frighteningly ordinary and by the time John had waited outside the mini-mart and watched the Sheriff buy fresh vegetables, a steak and a quart of milk on his way home, he was beginning to think he might have got it wrong.

John's doubts, however, had been dispelled when at ten thirty the upstairs light had snapped off and a few moments later Johansson had emerged carrying a large holdall. Able to keep a good distance between them John had followed Sheriff back to the Offices and watched as the man had parked and disappeared inside. No lights had come on but he'd seen three others enter while he'd waited for Bill.

His partner had been glued to the police scanner all day monitoring the movements of the patrol cars. There had always been the horrific possibility that the Sheriff would require another victim for sacrifice, black rituals could be greatly enhanced by fresh blood but fortunately everything had been quiet. Now, together, he and Bill were about to enter the 'lions den'.

Not wanting to cause a temperature change inside the building John hadn't opened the door wide but checked the immediate area inside was clear and then eased himself through the narrowest gap possible. He took care not to scrape his duffle on the frame as he passed through. The coven was bound to have a guard of some sort and he didn't want to alert anyone to their presence not until he and Bill were ready.

It was not totally dark in the corridor and John pressed against the wall had a good view through an open doorway into the foyer. The soft glow of a desk lamp spilled across the floor from the main desk running over the marble tiles to where John was standing. He stepped back from its brightness and keeping to the shadows he slid further along the passageway. The Deputy on duty remained oblivious to their presence and only the tinny noise of his TV disturbed the quiet surroundings as John and Bill searched for the basement doors.

The previous night, after their brainstorming session, two beers in the Liberty Bar had bought Bill the information, amongst other juicy titbits, that Talbot and Sons had carried out a rewiring job on the building several years ago. Bill had paid a surreptitious visit to the local electrician's, rifling through their records and finding a plan of the building.

Underneath the main building's ground floor were two separate areas. One contained the cells and custody suite and the other was a fall-out shelter, hollowed out in the hysteria of the 1950's, when the threat of immanent nuclear destruction was a constant presence in the populous mind. Most of these types of bunker had been abandoned in the mid 60's and filled in or used for storage this one was serving another purpose. It was an ideal space for a coven to use; one heavy security door and feet thick concrete walls.

Various doors led off the passageway's length and John knew from the plans that each section of the basement had its own individual staircase. To the right was the cellblock area and to the left no doubt behind a locked door was the bunker entrance. He gripped his lock pick ready to step in but when Bill tried the door it swung open on well oiled hinges.

Glancing at his partner John pushed his head forward indicating with a wry grin for Bill to go first. The older hunter rolled his eyes and shrugged before holding his handgun ready and stepping from the polished wooden floor onto the concrete steps.

Their footfalls sounded on the stone treads echoing loudly in the stark bare brick space. Bill paused and John held his breath but, after a few moments of heart hammering apprehension, when no one came to investigate they resumed their descent.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The mood was sombre as Johansson slowly slid the heavy material of his robes over his head. These were special, unspoiled, beautiful and perfect. He smoothed his hands over their rich deep purple folds, lost in the sensual feel of the silk. They made him feel strong, forceful and he savoured the feeling drawing in a deep breath closing his eyes against the banality of his surroundings. The bunker afforded the coven with a certain amount of privacy but was not ideal. It had none of the aura or the natural harmony required for a ritual of this magnitude but he would change that, he and he alone would create the resonance that would call forth his future.

Moines and Kingsley were already setting up the altar and preparing the protection circle, he trusted them but he would perform the purification ceremony himself. Tonight was too important, he couldn't afford for there to be even the smallest mistake; a word spoken out of place or mispronounced could destroy all that he'd worked for.

The smell of incense filled the void as the two acolytes intoned the verses required for the Circle of Protection. Four pillar candles were lit, to the North one representing Earth, the West, Water, the South, Fire and to the East, Air. Finally the men's voices lifted calling on the four Archangels; Michael, Gabriel, Raphael and Lucifer to give freely and provide protection to their servants.

These last sonorous tones fled into the darkened arena of the bunker as Johansson watched Beaks, Mendes and Horton step into the circle's confines. These men were not full initiates like Moines and Kingsley but they were a necessity. Later during the height of the summoning he would draw on their energies adding to his own purpose as he called out for the spirit to actualise.

The process might cause them a little pain but what the hell they came into this with their eyes wide open, the promise of money and sex saw to that. Johansson despised the pettiness of the human psyche. It disgusted him that they couldn't see beyond their own greedy egos but he could turn that to his advantage. So what if they were consumed and left empty, they were nothing, mere maggots wallowing in the filth of humankind.

The irony of his righteousness did not deter him; his was a purer, higher design and so far above his mother's pathetic attempts at atonement and salvation that he would be able to crush her God with the flick of his wrist.

Closing his eyes, anticipating that moment, the Sheriff took a deep breath and reigned in his excitement, directing it, using it to fuel the power growing in his body. His skin pricked the hairs rising as he felt the pressure building in the confined space. Gone was the dank sense of abandonment, the deadened dusty taste, now the air around him was charge laden and heavy with heat and tension.

Johansson struck a match. The phosphorous flared burning its image onto his retina. Deftly he threw the blazing stick onto the brazier, standing ready outside the circle of protection. For long moments nothing happened then with a crack a flame rose, blue and orange flickering, spitting, sending a steady drift of smoke curling upwards.

Crossing into the protected area Johansson raised his hand; the same ornate athame he'd used for the sacrifices gleamed reflecting the candle flame as he swung the knife down, point to the floor. Sparks arced from the blade as he drew it across the concrete scribing, following the nine foot circumference drawn around the altar. Behind him the five men chanted following Johansson's litany exactly their voices rising and falling in practiced concord as he closed the circle with a prayer.

_"O Lord Lucifer, we know that You are everywhere, And nothing happens that You cannot see, But even so, we pray that You will come and join with us directly at this time as we seek our communion now with You." _

Turning the Sheriff lifted a small bowl from the altar. Raising it high above the bowed heads of the kneeling Deputies in acceptance of their obsecration he took up the lighted taper from its holder and fired the herbs resting in the curved hollow; cedar for banishing, mint for cleansing and rosemary for purification

"_We give ourselves to You and now we now pray that You will give us your protection during this ceremony and purify us your willing servants so that we may call upon the spirits under your control to do our bidding." _

Head bowed, heart pounding, Johansson finished the supplication.

"_In the name of Lucifer's holy name we pray, Amen."_

He was trembling not with fear but with exhilaration this was what he'd been working towards, the culmination of all his aspirations, this was his time, his future. He stood for a moment in silence relishing the potency of the moment.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

John's trained ear heard voices up ahead and he grabbed onto Bill's arm but the seasoned hunter had already come to a standstill having heard the sounds himself. Flicking off their flashlights both men froze straining to hear, to distinguish words from the general hum but frustratingly nothing was clear only a jumble of deep rumbles, rising and falling. The rhythm was steady and the even tone belied a conversation. To John it sounded more like a prayer; he shivered could it be that the Sheriff had already begun the summoning.

Sliding the flashlight switch to on once again but holding the beam down John shook his head indicating to Bill that he'd caught nothing then he motioned his partner to move on but to take it slowly. John had seen four men enter but there could be more and he didn't want any nasty surprises.

Rounding a bend the velvet blackness gave way to a golden light haemorrhaging through the slight gap in a doorway. Someone had failed to close the reinforced door properly and the candlelight beyond spun across the floor dancing gleaming fingers out into the passage. Squinting through the crack John couldn't help but breath in the heady incense which cloyed the air. Retching slightly at the overpowering perfume he leaned forward to see a tall shadow silhouetted against a glowing brazier raise its arms; Johansson he could tell by the build of his body. Beyond that he could see very little.

Scooting backwards he let Bill close the gap between them.

"Well?"

The edge to the elder hunter's voice showed that he was impatient but he held himself in check as John leant forward lips to his friend's ear.

"I can't see a damn thing. Johansson's there but I'm not sure how many oth… " The scented smoke escaping through the aperture suddenly caught at the back of his throat and his body convulsed as he tried to suppress the developing cough. He gulped in air but only that made things worse. Tears streamed down his face and he clutched onto his friend, fisting the plaid shirt in his fingers.

Eventually, with the cloth of his shirt pressed to his mouth and nose, the irritation subsided and John was able to calm his rapid breathing. Bill mouthed 'You okay' at him and receiving a nod pulled back.

Wiping his face with the back of his hand John pressed himself to the wall enjoying the coolness through his sweat soaked clothes before once again turning to the metal door. Thankfully there was no light in the corridor save their flashlights and praying that someone had oiled the hinges he splayed his fingers out, pushed slightly and swung the door back. It was heavy and he could feel it shuddering beneath his fingertips but the hinges moved smoothly widening the gap enough for Bill and then himself to slip into the bunker unnoticed.


	5. Chapter 5

Johansson's adherents had taken up their places, still within the circle of protection but each now knelt at the apex of five of the six points on the Seal of Solomon etched onto the floor. Hoods shadowed their faces and sleeves hung from flexed wrists as hands were joined palms together. An expectant hush had fallen over the gathering as the Sheriff stood silently at the sixth point of the star next to the altar.

Johansson centred his thoughts, pulling in his senses shutting out the room and its occupants to concentrate on the small orb of power which had gathered inside him. In front of him, placed carefully on the unholy altar, lay the scroll of skin parchment, which had been so carefully collected. On it was written, in his own blood, the ritual words of the summoning.

Breathing in slowly, filling his lungs with the incense the Sheriff let the fragrant fumes fill his purified body, let it cleanse the day and the ordinary from him as he reached out and unfurled delicate vellum.

He didn't need to read, he knew each syllable by heart yet he looked down considering the dirty red lettering spidering over the yellow parchment, savouring every curl and flourish as he recited. Each of the ritual words had been imbued with power as he'd written and now as he spoke every phrase took on a life of its own; threading from his mouth their sound interlacing with the tendrils of smoke swirling above them.

"I conjure thee O spirit Eblis strengthened by the power of the Almighty Satan. I conjure and command thee come forth to me who speaks the most unholy petition. Appear forthwith and show thyself to me here outside this circle in fair and human shape, without horror or deformity and without delay.

_Come I conjure thee by Him to whom all creatures owe obedience, by whose name the elements are overthrown, the air is shaken, the sea is turned back, the fire quenched and the earth shudders. Speak to me Eblis and obey my will._

_I command thee to be ruled by whom thou owest obedience and abide and accept his name the one who has dominion over thee. Come answer my calling, do whatever I desire for thou are conjured by the Name of our Lord Lucifer the true God."_

A hiss of escaping steam from the brazier broke into Johansson's concentration. Irritated by its disturbance he re-focused drawing on his followers, pulling in their strength as he spoke the words again, louder this time, throwing more of his power, their power, into the meaning.

More smoke curled dark and massive from the smouldering fire. He commanded again, feeling it echo through the emptiness of the bunker as he raised the timber of his voice laying more emphasis and significance into its portent.

Power crackled, sparking in the air and the black vapour billowed but still the spirit did not manifest. Johansson swallowed back the disappointment knowing that he must not let doubt enter his mind.

Taking up the athame he pulled back the sleeve on his left arm and ran the sharp edge the full length of his forearm, from elbow to wrist. Blood welled from the deep gash, glossy and rich red its rivulets snaking across his white flesh, dripping onto the missive beneath.

"_By the four beasts, by the fire, by the unholy Angels of heaven and the Mighty Wisdom of Lucifer answer my demands and perform all that I desire or be cursed and flung into the very depths of the bottomless pit. There to remain in unquenchable fire and brimstone lost even to memory." _

Using the blood, writing, Johansson scribed the name of Eblis and his magical symbol onto a small piece of the vellum, rolled it and placed it in a black box. After sealing the wooden container he wrapped it in iron wire then placing tip of his knife in one of the coils he held it over the flame of a candle.

"As thy name is sealed within this box, choked by a sulphurous, stinking substance and burned in the fire. So shall ye be sealed in the pit and suffer the flames of Hell."

The rumbling took Johansson by surprise and he staggered as the ground shook. Around the circle the supplicants cried out in fear as the very air around them seemed to explode sucking the oxygen from the atmosphere as it rushed past pulled in by the swirling, boiling, vortex of smoke hovering over the brazier.

Concerned only with halting the ceremony John aimed and the bullet deliberately missed Johansson's heart by six inches clipping the Sheriff's upper arm ripping a hole right through fabric and muscle but the man remained standing.

For a moment as the sound of the shot echoed through the chamber nothing seemed to move save for the billowing, thickening gaseous cloud. It shivered expanding outward for microseconds then collapsed inward rising sharply, elongating as it ascended high above the frozen figures in the circle.

Cursing John fired again this time aiming to kill but the robed figure was moving now, backwards away from the hunter spun by the force of the first impact and by his desire to escape the attack. The second bullet went wide smacking into the far wall.

John saw Johansson, clutching his bleeding arm, land heavily and squirm onto his hands and knees trying to scrabble away but the robes hampered the Sheriff's progress snagging his legs wrapping them in swathes of purple. The man ferociously wrenched at the vestments, grabbing handfuls of material from around his thighs and knees but John got the impression Johansson was not a man in panic. He was furious, incensed his eyes flashing with unsullied hatred even as he pulled free and continued to crawl.

John hurled himself across the space determined that the sonofabitch wasn't going to escape.

Xxx

The pain in Johansson's arm was nothing to the indignant hatred burning in his heart. How dare these men desecrate his ritual, they had no place, no right. He'd worked so long and so hard, taken so many risks to get even this close to fulfilling his plans. To add further injury the spirit had been manifesting, its form taking shape over the brazier and these damned fools had barged in and destroyed everything but he would get his revenge, these blasphemers would not turn him from his purpose.

Pulling at his tangled vestments in vexation he crawled towards his fallen knife but before he could reach it a black boiling cloud filled his vision. Spiralling, twisting and spinning it speared towards him. Shock opened Johansson's mouth in an echo of his mother's dying expression and the arm of smoke forced itself down his throat.

Xxx

Pain seared across John's chest ricocheting down his arm and leg as he hit the ground pushed from the path to his prey by a tackle from the left. John hadn't stood a chance the momentum of the driving attack from the heavy set figure carrying him to the floor, the weight of his assailant pinning him down by an arm. Grappling, rolling John fisted his fingers the man's clothes pulling his enemy over his own supine body and crashing him into the hard concrete floor. He heard a groan whoosh from the man as he launched himself upward in one flowing movement to straddle the semi-conscious figure.

The fist smacking into the man's temple was instinctive, self preservation and John was raising his clenched fingers again even before he felt the jarring blow vibrate all the way up his arm. Blood gushed from his assailant's broken nose pouring over the lips and chin. John's knuckles contacted again slamming into the already damaged tissue forcing the head back and to the side. He drew back his arm a third time but was aware enough to rein in his response as he felt the conscious tension leave the body beneath him.

Breathing heavily John dropped his arm, his gaze immediately raking the semi-darkness for his foe. Bill was holding his own against two of the Sheriff's followers, two were down and he assumed that the other had fled but where the hell was Johansson.

Cursing under his breath, fearing that the Sheriff had hightailed it along with his acolytes John pushed himself up and off the unconscious body. Readying himself he swung round searching. In that instant he caught a movement in his peripheral vision.

Twisting, side-stepping the dark shape advancing on him the hunter brought his arm up to ward off the attack but the knife was already arcing inside his defences. John jerked back instinctively but the blade grazed his cheek splitting the skin along the cheekbone. It stung like fury and John found himself inhaling the warm metallic tang of his own blood but that didn't stop him grabbing for the forearm before his assailant could return and strike again. Jabbing his finger ends into the dips on either side of the wrist bones, digging into the sensitive tissue he squeezed until nerveless fingers opened and the athame clattered to the floor.

Keeping his hold John yanked on the arm twisting it up his assailant's back pulling the attacker forward, chest to chest, locking their bodies together to prevent further attack. Hot breath raked over the bare skin of his neck and he shuddered at the sudden, overwhelming feeling of depravity.

"Good to see ya again John. How's Mary?" The voice whispered insinuating its timbre into his ear. "Oh I forgot, she died."

He'd called him John. It took several seconds for John to realise the portent of what the man had said. Neither he nor Bill had used their real names or even their Christian names as part of their alias. How could the man know about him, about Mary? He tightened his grip but the captive held so close flexed, pulled back and John found himself face to face with Johansson's sneering smirk.

"How are those boys of yours, Dean and little Sammy?"

John blinked stupidly at the Sheriff.

" They must be growing fast. I hope you're taking good care of them for me."

Heart clenching painfully in his chest John couldn't breath, his muscles tensed painfully, locking his limbs. He couldn't take in, sort out, make sense of the words. What was this man saying?

Finally after an agony of irresolution he moved. Whatever…this was one child murderer that was never going to see a trial.

Maintaining his grip on the wrist, pulling to keep his opponent wrong footed John ducked, corkscrewing his body, free hand reaching back seeking his own knife. His fingers closed around the hilt and he dragged it from its sheath but before he could deploy the weapon Johansson had borne downward wrenching his arm from John's grasp.

John was falling, thrown off balance by the Sheriff's actions and he tensed waiting for the jarring contact with the floor but it never came. He was airborne, rushing above the blurring concrete surface of the chamber, helpless, unable to halt his progress. He slammed into the wall, bones crunching together painfully and like a marionette whose strings had been cut he slumped hard to the ground beneath.

Struggling to drag in breath John fought against the rising pain but everything around him faded, greying out. His last conscious view was of Johansson's grinning features above him and the man's burning yellow eyes.

XXXXXXXX

"My best guess…? It was a demon." Bill laid another ice cold damp cloth over John's swollen cheek. "The bastard fool summoned a Goddamned demon."

John tried to shift away from Bill's fingers as they trailed down his chest and pressed lightly on his ribcage.

"Ouch."

Pain lanced through John's torso, front to back and he couldn't help sucking in a sharp breath. The inflating lungs pushed against his broken ribs from underneath and the aching pain became sharper and more intense.

"Jeese Bill."

His friend grinned, "Johansson sure did a number on you." Bill applied a light pressure stopping John's movements. "Keep still. You got at least two broken ribs and a couple more cracked but the rest I reckon is superficial"

It didn't feel superficial, the cut on John's cheek smarted, his eye was closing with the swelling and his whole body throbbed painfully with each heartbeat. Thankfully Bill stopped pressing the damaged area but remained gazing down at the mottled bruising spreading across his friend's chest.

"What?" John was ungraciously irritable he hated being an invalid but he hated being treated like one even more.

"Gonna have to strap you up real good 'n tight. It'll hurt like heck but at least you'll be able to sit up and it'll minimise the danger of you puncturing a lung. " Bill grinned again as if it was a great joke before lightly smacking his friend on the thigh. "Can't have you lyin' around all day."

"Was Johansson a Demon all along?" It wasn't like John had never heard of demons. He'd come across stories, mythology. Christian, Hindu, Jewish there were numerous mentions in the books he'd read but nothing about them walking the earth as actual beings. "I mean…how…When?"

"Strictly speaking he's not a demon he's possessed by one." Bill was still sitting by the bed. "Goddamn it he practically invited the thing in. You can't mess with that sort of thing without consequences."

"You mean he wanted to be possessed?" Why would Johansson open himself up like that John couldn't see the advantage?

"No, I don't think he meant that to happen, I don't think he was possessed when he…he killed those kids, that was pure Johansson but the stupid s-o-b summoned it...a demon! Idiot probably thought he could control it for whatever reason but you can't control something like that…" Bill rose and ran his hand through his hair, "…from what I saw it had manifested in the smoke, then when we broke the protection circle it went after Johansson, jammed itself down his gullet and hey presto one possessed lunatic."

"We have to find him."

Snorting his derision Bill crossed to the table and began re-packing the First Aid kit. "Yeah you and whose army… There's no point John. Johansson's dead meat already, I never heard of anyone surviving possession intact… There won't be much left." Bill tapped his temple to illustrate his point. "…that's if his body survives…and as for a demon how do you capture something that's all smoke and mirrors."

Anxiety tumbled in John's gut tying it in tight knots. It disturbed him that his friend wasn't going to follow up on the hunt. He'd always looked up to the more experienced hunter, respected his friend's knowledge and skill but Bill seemed ready to dismiss Johansson as if the man was already dead. John couldn't leave it up in the air he needed to know and he couldn't ignore what the thing had said to him.

"Bill…" He tried to sit up but fell back with a groan.

"…need some painkillers?" The elder hunter was already re-opening and rummaging in the First Aid box.

"…it knew me."

The silence which followed quickly became unbearable. Bill stood unmoving staring down at his hands holding the pill packet.

"…It called me John."

"You must have miss-heard it couldn't possibly know. There was a lot going on." Popping two capsules from the foil sheet Bill reached for a glass.

"It knew about Dean and Sam…" John's throat tightened. "How did it know about my sons, Bill?"

Sighing Bill sat heavily, slumping onto the hard wooden chair behind him and rubbed his face with callused fingers. "Honestly?" He looked tired and John noticed that his friend's hand trembled. "I have no idea. This is way beyond my expertise." He shook his head. "Who knows what Demons can do? Maybe they can read minds."

"Do you think my boys are in danger?" Fear threaded through John's anxiety.

"No…John…there's no reason, why would it…" Bill faltered he obviously couldn't give his friend the reassurance he wanted.

John struggled to sit this time managing with gritted teeth to get himself up and leaning, back to wall. "I need to call Jim."

"John it's…" The protestation burst from Bill but John already had the phone in his hand and was dialling.

"Hello…" Jim's voice was thick with sleep, blurred and unfocused.

"Jim…"

"John? What is it? Are you all right?" The Pastor was fully awake now and his worried concern enveloped John as the hunter struggled to find the words he needed.

"Its four in the morning John…what's wrong?"

"The..the boys they okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, they're fine. Sleeping…" Relief flooded through John he'd suddenly been so afraid, "…I'd have called if anything was wrong."

"I know you would" Hesitating for a moment John quickly made up his mind. He couldn't take any risks. "I'll be back to pick them up as soon as I can…"

"John? What is it?"

"You keep my boys safe Jim." John disconnected. He'd wanted to say something more, to ask his mentor, let Jim make him feel better. Yet he couldn't explain, not when he didn't know himself what he was scared of, but there had been something in the yellow eyes of the demon which had frightened John, frightened him to his very core.

XXXXXXXX

Dean was a meanie. When Dad was gone he got all bossy an'… an'… just like Dad. Sam kicked at a stone and sent it skittering across the driveway. He'd wanted to go to the park. There was a great park down the road from the Pastor's and they'd gone there lots of times but today Dean had said 'No'.

Sam kicked another stone aiming this time towards the large gatepost at the entrance to the Mission. His brother had told him he had a job to do for Pastor Jim and that Sammy could help if he wanted. Most of the time Sam loved helping his brother watching him clean Dad's gun, passing him the oiled cloth or cooking because Dean always let him press the buttons on the microwave but today Sam didn't feel like doing a job, he wanted to go to the park.

Shrugging his shoulders, Dean had turned and walked away and Sam had stuck his tongue out at his brother's retreating back but it hadn't made him feel any better. He hated being the youngest; no one had any time for him.

This wasn't strictly true and he felt a small twinge of guilt about his ungrateful thoughts because Dean nearly always made time to be with Sam despite Dad making him train and stuff. It had been Dean that had taught Sam to read and do his numbers, Dean that bathed him and cleaned up his skinned knees and Dean who laid with him at night until he fell asleep.

Bored Sam found himself wandering, through Pastor Jim's high panelled hallway to the big old-fashioned kitchen. Martha, the Pastor's housekeeper was busy preparing the evening meal for the 'guests' that were staying and Sam drawn in by the smells watched her mixing and rolling the pastry. Her pies were the best Sam knew 'cause Dean had told him as he munched his way through seconds and thirds and his brother always knew about things like that.

Humming to herself and unaware of her young observer Martha had nearly tripped over Sam stepping backwards into him but on seeing him she had smiled broadly, slipped him a couple of cookies and a tall glass of milk with a conspiratorial wink before shooing him out into the yard. She didn't have time for him either.

Leaning on the gatepost Sam gazed down the road in the direction of the park. It wasn't fair other kids got to go, an' everyday. He could hear them shouting and squealing. It sounded like they were having fun. Finishing his milk he set the glass down and slid around the post, still leaning on it but now outside the boundary of the Mission's grounds. If he bent forward he could see the swings and some dark haired boy laughing as he seesawed higher and higher.

Gradually Sam, scraping his back along the fence, worked his way nearer so he could see the merry-go-round and the monkey bars and the ice cream truck. From where he was now he could see a Dad messing around, throwing and catching a ball with his two boys. Sam's Dad played catch but it wasn't for fun he said it was to quicken their reflexes, make them faster but it made Sam cry. Unconsciously he rubbed his chest remembering the thudding hurt of a hard ball thrown with full strength.

A particularly high screech followed by howls of laughter had Sam straining to see and he stepped further down the sidewalk neck craning.

"Sounds like they're having fun huh."

Sam started surprised at the person being so close without him having heard or felt the presence. He turned regarding the owner of the voice with silent suspicion. Dad didn't like him talking to people. He'd drilled it into him and Dean again and again that people were bad news, that you didn't talk to anyone, not motel maids, not clerks, not waitresses, not cops, not nobody. He barely gave Sam permission to speak to his teachers.

"Hi I'm Pieter."

The name sounded like Peter but the way the man said it sounded weird.

Sam shifted uncomfortable with the stranger's close proximity and his heart took a lurch as his eyes slid past the slender figure to the gateway beyond and he realised that the man was between him and the safety of the Mission building. Sam's eyes flicked nervously to the gateway and back to the man. His mind raced. What would his brother do?

"I …I gotta go. My Dad's inside." Sam tried to edge around the stranger but the man caught him by the arm slamming the small body up against the fence. Sam pulled but the grip was firm, digging into the fleshy part of the muscle on his upper arms.

"Now Sammy we both know that's not true, don't we." The grinning, threatening face was now only inches from Sam's own.

Panic set in and Sam struggled trying desperately to dislodge the strangers grasp. He didn't like this man, didn't like him being so close or touching or …or anything.

"L..L..Lea…ve me alone."

"Awe come on Sam that's not very friendly not when we're practically blood relatives, family."

What did the man mean? He'd never seen him before and Dad had said they had no family. Deep down Sam had such a bad, bad feeling. Something was wrong, really rotten an' nasty.

Fetid breath brushed over Sam's face. "Come on Sammy we can be real good friends if you'll let me..." The stranger pressed closer.

Sam breath became rapid as his fright heightened. "Let me go, let me go..." Blindly, desperately he fought hitting and thumping the thin unyielding body in front of him with his small fists but the iron grip held him fast against the wooden fence. A hand clasped his jaw forcing his head round, forcing him to look into the cruel face that was inches from his own, to look into the eyes of the stranger.

With a sob of fear Sam wrenched himself away and fell hard to the ground. Limbs flailing he scrambled backwards scraping the skin on his back as he gained his feet. Then not waiting and with no thought other than to get away from the horrible man, Sam ran.


	6. Chapter 6

"WHERE IS HE?" John towered over Dean.

"John …" Pastor Jim stepped forward but John ignored him. He couldn't believe that Dean had let Sam go off on his own, that he'd…"WHY DID…." He couldn't finish the words. "I LEFT YOU IN CHARGE…"

"JOHN STOP IT." The Pastor's raised a placating hand as well as his voice. "It's not Dean's fault. I asked him to do a job for me and…"

Rage boiled inside John, hot and urgent as he turned on his friend. "So your job was more important than my son."

"No…that's not what I said."

"He's six years old Jim." A desperate hurt was building inside John a wild feeling of helplessness. He'd spent so long protecting, safeguarding his children and now it was all unravelling and he couldn't stop it. He'd been so afraid for so long and now is fears were coming true. Sam was missing.

Trying to keep the tremor from his voice, keep it even he crouched down in front of his eldest. "Dean when did you last see your brother?"

The boy hung his head refusing to look at his father. It was pure defiance in John's eyes and his frustration at his son's stubborn surliness made the fury flare again. Grabbing Dean, gripping his eldest tightly by the shoulders he shook the boy. He needed answers.

"DEAN…"

"JOHN THAT'S ENOUGH." Jim put his hands over John's on Dean's shoulders protectively. "Dean go ask Martha when she last saw Sam."

The boy squirmed and suddenly John's anger dissipated leaving only utter exhaustion and the crushing pain in his side. He released Dean and watched wearily as his ten-year-old scooted back into the Mission without a backward glance. Straightening, rubbing his face John took as deep breath a breath as he could and look up at the concerned kindly face of his mentor.

"Where is he Jim? It's not like him to go off…he knows not to…Something's happened."

"John we don't know that. He could be off playing somewhere…Come on in and sit down. You look like crap."

John shook his head. "I can't Jim not when Sam's out there. I gotta go look for him."

"I got people out looking." The Pastor reached out to John. "You've been driving for forty-eight hours straight, you're injured by the look of it, in pain and you need to stop and rest, you're not going to help Sam by collapsing with exhaustion."

"But what if he's in trouble."

"He's strong and intelligent and for a six year old kid amazingly resourceful."

"And that makes it better?"

Pastor Jim shook his head, "No but it makes it less likely he'll come to harm."

"No Jim I can't ...I have to ..." At that point John's knees gave way and he would have hit the deck if the Pastor hadn't caught him. There was no need for words Jim's face said everything, sighing and against every instinct raging inside him John leant heavily on his friend and allowed himself to be guided into the big house's warm kitchen.

Martha fussed insisting on not only giving John a large mug of strong black coffee but on making him a thick sandwich placing it on a plate in front of John with a 'You don't get up from this table till it's all eaten' look. John took a bite but it felt like ashes in his mouth.

It seemed like a lifetime ago that he and Bill had given up trying to sleep and started the journey back from Nelson. They had driven in convoy. John staring at the road ahead and the red taillights of Bill's truck as the darkness gave way to dawn.

Seven hours later John was on his own having watched Bill climb wearily from the car and into the arms of a waiting Ellen. It left an ache in his heart as he'd driven away leaving them to their reunion. Mary had loved him like that, had been waiting for him when he returned from work, hugged him, made him laugh over dinner and taken him to bed where he forgot the cares of day.

Sometimes when he tired of being strong and carrying on regardless he let himself remember Mary, her soft, silky warmth and always the screwed up feeling in his belly tightened, hardened reinforcing his resolve to find what killed her and destroyed his life.

Now all he was feeling was a cold trepidation. He'd arrived back after two days of non-stop driving already worried about his sons to find his youngest missing. Jim's reassurances that Sammy had only been gone an hour did nothing to assuage neither his anger nor his fear.

He knew he'd taken his feelings out on Dean but the boy's silence made him crazy. He'd drummed into his eldest that he was to look out for his brother that Sam was his responsibility. John couldn't do what he did if he had to split his attention from the Job. Sam was missing on Dean's watch and however John tried to view it and whatever Jim said his eldest had let him down, badly.

XXXXXXXX

Sam collapsed onto the grass rasping breath into his aching lungs. He'd run and run legs punching the hard ground each pounding step jarring his whole body but he didn't stop, couldn't stop, his fear driving him on beyond anything his Dad had made him do. Now he could go no further, his muscles had seized landing him wheezing on a small patch of grass between two driveways.

Rolling onto his back arms straight out as his chest heaved Sam stared up into the interlacing tree branches above. He had no idea where he was, the leafy tree-lined streets barely registering as he'd fled from the horror that was the man.

Gradually his rapid breathing abated and with shaky arms Sam pushed up fear still hammering his heart knowing that he didn't want to be caught and that he couldn't stay still for long. He scanned the area. Had the man followed him? Sam's urge to flight was still uppermost but he could see no one and although he kept alert like Dad taught him he slowly allowed his alarm to lessen and his tired limbs to relax

Swallowed hard he tried not to cry. Dean had told him that only babies cried but even though he tried he couldn't prevent the tears leaking and trailing down his overheated sweat soaked skin. His lip trembled Dad was gonna be so mad.

If he'd been in the centre of town there'd have been call boxes or even a store where he could have asked to use the phone. He knew the number of the Mission off by heart, Dad had made him repeat it nearly every hour everyday for a week and then had showed him and Dean how to put the money in and talk to the operator, _'cause it wasn't safe to use phones in peoples houses.'_ Dad'd then given them both a quarter to keep in their pants pocket.

Sam didn't have the quarter; that morning Pastor Jim had brought some new clothes, well new to Sam, into his room saying that they'd been left and that Sam might well make use of them. Sam'd delved into the pile with enthusiasm picking out a really cool Fraggles Rock Sprocket T-Shirt and a pair of jeans that didn't have holes in the knees. So pleased with his new acquisitions and desperate to show Dean Sam had discarded his old outfit with the quarter in the pocket without a second thought and rushed downstairs.

Sniffing Sam dragged the back of his hand across his face wiping away the moisture. More than anything, ever, he wanted to see Dean walking towards him sporting a cheesy grin and calling him a big girl for cutting and running. Dean wouldn't have run off scared, his big brother could fight anything he'd have slugged the stranger right on the nose and then kept on punching and punching and punching until the man was dead.

Reassured a little by this image Sam pulled up the hem of his T-shirt and rubbed his face. His nose was all blocked and his eyes felt itchy but he'd stopped hiccupping breath and the shaking in his legs had lessened. Checking around again Sam looked at the houses. He knew he needed to find the Mission but although he'd visited Pastor Jim many times Dad had never allowed him to go beyond the grounds, except to the park and that was always with Dean. He sniffed again nothing seemed familiar or looked even remotely like anywhere he'd seen before.

The enormity of his situation nearly brought back the tears. He was alone in a strange town, no money, no way to call his brother and even if he could he didn't know where to say he was. Pressing his lips together to stop the wobble Sam squinting up it must be a good hour or two since he'd gone outside with his cookie then it had early afternoon and now the sun was lower in the sky.

Sniffing several times Sam sat more miserable now than scared. Teachers at school said that you should find a cop if you were lost but Sam knew better. Dad had told him that the cops were bad news and would take him and Dean away if either of them got into trouble. Sam chewed on his lip till it hurt blinking back more tears. Everything seemed so big, the fences, the houses, the road and it would be getting dark soon. Rising to his feet Sam gave himself the pep talk Dean would have. _'Come on Sam, you can't be that far from the Mission, even you can't have run that fast or that far. You gotta get up and think it through.' _He wished Dean were here for real.

Sam's legs trembled and he stood thinking twisting his fingers in his damp shirt trying to decide what to do. Dean and Pastor Jim had to have missed him by now. His throat constricted and he fought hard to stop more tears as he thought of how worried his brother had to be. Dean always looked out for him; at school and when Dad left them for days at a time and when Sam woke shouting and scared all to hell about the bad things Dad hunted. His big brother was always there.

Down the street to his left a man was working on his car but haunted by his encounter with the stranger and his Dad's ominous words Sam was too frightened to ask for help. Avoiding the busy figure he crossed the road walking in the opposite direction, glancing apprehensively behind him to see if the man had noticed but nobody shouted after him and he saw no one else as he hurried down the street.

Reaching the corner Sam stopped. The road running across the intersection was far busier than the one he had left with cars passing frequently in both directions. There were people too. A group of women chatting at the bottom of a driveway, kids playing on bikes and others doing the stuff that people did in houses.

His only chance to avoid awkward questions was to act confident and look like he knew where he was going but that was the trouble, Sam hesitated, he had no idea which way to go.

XXXXXXXX

"Any news?" John looked up as Jim entered the study. The Pastor insisted that John rest on the couch when the hunter had refused to go upstairs to one of the bedrooms. John had laid himself down but sleep was beyond him. His mind kept going over and over possibilities. Round and round winding in ever darkening circles ending with the image of a small body crumpled in a heap or worse.

The silence from his friend answered his question and wearily John swung his legs down and sat head in hands trying to rub the exhaustion from his face.

"We've covered the nearest streets and the park and now we're gonna spread out in a grid pattern." Jim sat on the chair dragging it round from the untidy desk. "What would he do John, where would he go if he found himself on his own?"

Shaking his head John rose pacing the threadbare carpet.

"Would he go to the cops?"

"NO. Not the cops he knows not to involve them."

"Then what John?"

Again the hunter shook his head he didn't know and it was beginning to dawn on him that he knew very little about his youngest son that he had no idea what Sam would do or think or anything. The person that would know was Dean.

"Where's Dean?"

"Upstairs in his room I think. He wanted to go out with one of the search parties but I convinced him he'd be better waiting here….John!"

John took the stairs two at a time and pushed open the door so hard that it banged loudly. "Dean?" His gaze swung around the room, it was empty. "DEAN!" Running back past the surprised Pastor panic rising into his throat John burst through the outside door. "DEAN!"

Several men turned but nowhere could John see his ten year old.

XXXXXXX

Dean felt guilty, guilty as hell. He'd brushed Sam off, said 'No' to taking his little brother to the park because Pastor Jim had asked him to wash his car and was gonna pay him real money to do it. Now Sammy was missing and it was all Dean's fault, Dad had said so and Dean totally believed him.

Dodging into a bush Dean watched as a small group of men paced up the drive and disappeared into the Mission. Sammy had been missing for two hours now and although Pastor Jim had said to stay in the house Dean knew that Sam in ordinary circumstances would never talk to strangers. Dad had drilled it into them often enough so it was unlikely that any of these volunteers were going to get close to his brother. No it was up to him to find Sam.

The noisy enjoyment of the park had not abated and Dean scanned the faces of the children as he hurried along its perimeter but none were Sam and he felt his spark of hope die. He'd had to check and he hadn't really expected his brother to be there but some small part of him had held onto the belief that it had all been a mistake and Sam would come running to him grinning widely. However Sam wasn't stupid and Dean knew deep down that there was no way his little brother would sneak off to the park and leave them all worrying for this long even if he had forgotten the time. No something had happened and Sammy had run off or…or… Dean didn't want to think about the 'or' he couldn't.

Doubling back past the park anxiety squeezing his heart Dean tried to reason what might have happened. It made sense that Sam had been watching the children on the swings and he might have pushed the limitation on the rule about not going outside the mission grounds by standing by the gatepost so he could see better. Dean's gaze raked over the post and then the fence beyond and he saw them, about half way along, small pieces of blue thread caught on the rough surface of the wood. Sammy had been wearing a new blue Fraggle T-shirt the one that Pastor Jim had given him. Dean felt a lurch Sammy had been leaning on the fence right there.

Pulling at the threads Dean rubbed them through his fingers. "Where are you Sammy?" The whispered words seemed to echo in the empty space around him. Dean shivered it felt weird Sam not being there. They were in separate classes at school but all the other times it was him and Sammy. Even when they were with Dad it was still the two of them; Dean in front and Sam tagging onto the back of his shirt asking his darn questions.

Glancing back at the Mission Dean made up his mind. He knew that his Dad would tear into him when he found out Dean had gone after Sam but at least it would deflect some of his father's anger away from his brother.

Dean checked up and down the street before he continued following the fence's progress keeping his left hand on the wood as he rounded the corner. Here he stopped once again unsure of the way to go but across the street a shower of leaves spread under a bush caught his eye. It was too early in the year for leaves to be dropping in this number and several broken twigs on the bush itself indicated that someone had either collided with the overhanging branches or rushed past at speed.

Crossing the metalled road Dean continued stopping every few feet to examine the ground and surrounding gardens but he saw no more signs of his brother. He passed several grown-ups but didn't approach them even though he wanted to. _'You mustn't talk to strangers'_ His Dad's voice went round and round inside his head round and round tightening Dean's anxiety until he couldn't speak. All he could do was look for his brother and hope against hope that he found him.

XXXXXX

Sam's legs ached it seemed like he'd been walking for hours, turning down one road, then another until they all blurred into the same house-lined, lawn-trimmed tree-edged, street. Lights had come on in windows glowing out into the darkening suburb and bathing the interiors in a comforting yellow glow.

It looked warm and safe in those houses and not at all like Dad said but Sammy knew that his house had once been like that. Dean had told him, not in so many words 'cause Dean didn't talk much about it not that Dean talked much anyway but Sammy saw how his brother looked into those places when they passed by and how he would look sad and kinda lost. Sam knew that his mother had died in a house like that and so not trusting the promised comfort, tucking his head down, he turned away.

Continuing straight Sam trudged, dragging his feet with every step until the paving underfoot changed to grass. He stopped and glanced up. He'd reached yet another intersection, the roads reaching out into the dusky twilight. His chin quivered and he swallowed as he found he couldn't make a decision. He'd made so many, each with the hope he would find somewhere he knew somewhere that would at least give him some idea of where he might be but every time he'd been disheartened to find himself once again in a strange place.

Sam collapsed down onto the damp verge he was truly lost. A sob broke through his resolve. More followed shaking his body in silent aching anguish as arms crossed he hugged his thin chest. Tears coursed down his face gathering under his chin, dripping but Sam paid no heed so lost was he in his misery.

Eventually dread tired, the adrenalin from the heightened emotion having run its course and the hours of walking taking their toll, Sam could do no more than crawl under the protection of a low wall and close his eyes.

XXXXXXX

Dean had quickened his pace, jogging down each wide path checking around him. It was getting dark but at least being in a town the streetlights would kick in giving him a chance of spotting Sam. He turned yet another corner as he worked a zigzag route down alternate streets. He was conscious that he was hunting his brother and the hours of training his Dad had put him through were paying off but something in him, some stubborn resentment wouldn't let him acknowledge that fact.

It might be his, Dean's fault, that Sam had gone missing but it was Dad's restrictive hold on them both that had made Sam want to push against the prohibitive, confining commands and go to the park on his own. Dean admired Sam's rebelliousness. Even at the age of six his brother pushed the boundaries his Dad set but Dean had gone the other way deflecting his Dads attention from his brother by being extra good at things and by making a superhuman effort to please his father.

Sometimes, rarely he felt that he'd got through to his Dad but the praise Dean sought never came he was never good enough and he couldn't help the silent resentment that irked his father rise within him. The silences that followed were never easy and were never discussed. Only Sammy's small hand in his assuaged the hurt.

Halting Dean checked the time Sam had been missing for five hours. He set off again slowing his pace to a brisk walk as he crossed the next intersection, walking diagonally across the space.

A crossroad was special, he'd heard the things that Pastor Jim had said about them but he was a bit vague on how they actually worked but stopping suddenly at the centre he closed his eyes and made a wish. Dean put his whole being into the wish, holding his breath, willing the words in his head to be so.

'I want to find Sammy…I want to find Sammy.'

When he opened his eyes he felt foolish. Standing in the middle of the road praying, 'cause that's what it felt like, was stupid. He knew people that prayed, Pastor Jim prayed but never in Dean's experience had a prayer been answered. The Pastor said folks had to have faith but Dean wasn't sure what that was. He thought it was believing in something but he didn't know what he believed in. His Mom had believed in Angels but that hadn't helped her none when she needed it.

A heavy despondency settled over him and all of a sudden he found it hard to see. He blinked rapidly and wiping his sleeve over his eyes, sniffed berating himself for crying like a kid 'cause that wasn't gonna help find Sammy.

The lights of a car turning into the street brought Dean back to the realisation that he was still standing in the middle of the crossroads. He got out of the way, rushing as the Chevrolet accelerated past showing no awareness of the boy in the road. Backing up, stepping up the kerb Dean in his haste caught his foot on something, tripped and fell backwards.

"OW!"

Dean landed hard the breath knocked out of him but he had enough air left to gasp.

"Sammy?"

"Dean?" And suddenly his lap was full of his little brother, arms went round his neck and he was hugged. "I got lost." Sam's voice was all trembly and Dean hugged his brother back.

"S'okay Sammy, s'okay, I gotcha."

XXXXXXX

"WHAT DID I TELL YOU?" John yelled. "YOU NEVER, EVER LEAVE THE COMPOUND. What possessed you…" John stopped at his own words and was tempted for a moment to say 'Christo' but something made him hold his tongue. Sam was a mess, snivelling, shoulders bowed in misery as he stood staring down at his shabby trainers. He'd obviously had a scare. John's anger evaporated and he pulled his youngest into a fierce hug relieved that Sam had come to no harm. His son was living and breathing and safe.

John held the small form for a long time his large hand cupping Sam's head fingers entwined in the ridiculously long brown strands. How many times had John told Dean to cut his brother's hair.

Sam's arms tightened about John's hips as he buried his face in the material of his father's shirt. John allowed him the comfort for now but running off was a serious offence and he was not going to let Sam off lightly. He'd cautioned his boys countless times about staying put, about the dangers that lurked outside the protection he'd laid down and as for Dean he definitely should have known better than to let Sammy wander off on his own.

John looked up at his eldest who stood behind his brother and despite his mere ten years of life was glaring at his parent with all the belligerent intenseness of an adolescent. He opened his mouth to reprimand Dean not only for leaving his brother to his own devices but for going out alone to search. He knew he put a lot of responsibility on Dean's ten year old shoulders but it was for his and Sammy's own good. John didn't like playing the heavy handed father but he had to know that they would obey his orders without question, that his boys would safe. Dumb, stupid antics like this could get them killed. Abruptly John's throat went tight and he could feel the tears pricking at his eyes. The last five hours had been almost as bad as those first days after Mary died. If he'd lost …

He looked down again. He'd been so worried, frightened for his boy, for both his boys especially after the job in Nelson. A vision of his own children superimposed over the gruesome photos Bill had shown him made him swallow. He squeezed Sam tighter in his arms and held him close whilst at the same time reaching for Dean. The boy resisted at first but then leaned in awkwardly hugging his younger brother as much as his Dad.

"M'sorry Dad." Sam mumbled into John's stomach wetting his shirt with more tears. "But the man scareded me."

Ice gripped John's heart. "Man?" He pulled Sam away from him and crouched. Softly he asked again. "What man Sammy?"

Hiccupping breath Sam sucked in his bottom lip, mouth curled downwards as he avoided his father's eyes. Afraid to ask John steeled himself then forced out the words.

"Sammy…did the man…do anything to you?"

"He h.h…hurt my arm." Sam pulled up the sleeve of his t-shirt to reveal four bruise marks in a row and one further round almost underneath the bicep. John's anger boiled again at the obvious finger prints on his son's pale skin but tainted with the relief that nothing more sinister had happened.

Sam shifted, fidgeting, twisting his fingers in the cloth of his shirt, "'an he scraped my back on the fence when he pushed me." Sam trembling slightly chewed his lip, "M' s..s…orry Dad I didn't mean to r..run away." He hiccupped his breath again, " I g..got l..lost." Finally Sam raised his head and looked up into his father's eyes.

John gazed at Sam's innocent tear streaked face and gathered him in for another hug.

"It's okay son." Sammy felt so small and skinny in his arms and John couldn't help the fear that rose up at how vulnerable both Sam and Dean were to the horrors that abounded their world.

"Sammy," Dean, barely audible to John, was kneeling down beside his brother, "Did the man say anything."

There was silence for a beat and then Sam turned to his brother, "Yeah." Sam's head went down to stare at his trainers again. "He said we were blood… something …'an …'an I didn' know what to do Dean. He wouldn't let me go 'an I pulled and pulled." The tears returned streaming down Sam's already blotchy face. "I didn't mean 'an…he…'an...'an."

"You got away that's what matters." Dean leant in for his own hug his hand rubbing Sam's back in a comforting gesture. Sam gave a small nod gulping in air.

John was kneeling now in front of his son, hands clasping the thin shoulders he drew Sam away from his brother. "A blood what Sammy…its important.?" Sam nodded sniffing repeatedly his forlorn expression making John want to hug him tight and never let him go but he needed information. His hands gripped harder on the thin shoulders. "Can you remember exactly what he said Sam?"

"He said we were pract practi something… blood rel…relatimes… 'an that I wasn't being friendly" There was silence Sam searching John's face.

"Was it blood relatives?"

Sam's whole face brightened. "Yeah... what does it mean Dad?"

John's skin crawled at his son's words and he had no answer to Sam's question. They had no blood relatives, well none on his side and if Mary had any family left they had not attempted to contact her since she'd married John. He gazed at Sam intently. "Did he say anything else Sammy. Think carefully because it's important.

Sam squirmed in John's grip but John held him firm any information could be crucial in finding who had assaulted his son.

"H..h..he told me his name…it was weird like Peter but not Peter."

"Pieter?" A ball of suspicion knotted in John's stomach as Sam blinked and his bottom lip quivered. He took his son's silence as assent.

"Sammy what did the man look like?"

Sammy rubbed his nose with his sleeve, normally John would have grumbled but now was not the time.

"H..he was old…older'an you Dad 'an not as tall." Screwing up his face Sam thought, "he had grey and brown hair…'an he was funny looking."

"Funny?"

Nodding Sam answered. "Yeah…his eyes were creepy…kinda yellowy."


	7. Chapter 7

Sam felt the weight lift off the bed and a hand softly push his hair from his face. He stayed still wanting his father to give more tokens of comfort but John pulled back and Sam heard whispering protests as his brother was ushered into bed across the room. Eventually the door clicked shut and all he could hear was Dean breathing.

"Dean?"

"Yeah." Dean sounded tired and half asleep already.

"Night."

"Night Sammy."

There was silence and Sam closed his eyes but his body felt tense, alert as if he was waiting for something. He turned to face the other bed, curling and wrapping his arms around himself but sleep wouldn't come.

"Dean?" There was no reply. "Dean." He tried a little louder. There was again no reply but then he heard his brother pull the comforter back. Sam needed no further invitation and he was up and sliding into the warmth of his brother's bed before Dean changed his mind.

"And keep your cold feet to yo….."

Sam deliberately settled his feet upon his brother's calves.

"SAMMY." An elbow slammed into his side. Not hard but hard enough for him to get the message.

"Dean…"

"Mmm"

"D'you think he'll come back, the man?"

There was a moments silence and then, "No Sammy….Dad's here and …I'm here…now go to SLEEP."

Sam turned and scooted backwards until he felt his brother's back on his then with a quiet snicker rubbed his feet again on Dean's calves.

"SAMMY."

XXXXXXXXX

Jim had held his tongue. He'd watched John put his sons to bed, tucking them in like any normal father. He'd even held his tongue while John sat in the huge kitchen trying to force down a plateful of Martha's stew but now in the warmth of his study he broached what was on his mind.

"Okay John, what's going on?"

Swilling the amber liquid around his glass John took a sip savouring the twelve year old single malt and staring into the glowing remnants of the open fire. His face was pale, devoid of expression but the lines around his eyes cut deep groves showing his tiredness.

Jim waited knowing that his friend would not be hurried but he was determined to get some answers. The shocked look on John's face when Sam had mentioned the man's 'yellow eye's." had greatly concerned him. Something had gone down on that last hunt that had rattled John. Sam's revelation and John's reaction to it had only confirmed Jim's suspicion.

"He skinned kids Jim, skinned them alive and then killed them." Jim remained silent conscious that any interruption might halt John's dialogue. "All to summon a goddamned Demon."

"A Demon?" Jim couldn't stop himself.

"The sonofabitch killed six kids." Fingering the fine edge of the glass in his hand John leaned forward. "They were Sammy's age Jim, little scraps of things…they should have been out in the park playing on the swings…" There was a catch in John's throat. "…nobody should have done that to them…nobody."

"And this was the man that talked to Sam?" The Pastor was beginning to feel something of the horror that was engulfing his friend.

"No." John hesitated. "Yes…I'm not sure."

Jim waited again John was obviously finding it hard to explain.

"Bill and I investigated a man called Pieter Johansson. He was the Sheriff in a town called Nelson and he murdered the children to …to create a summoning ritual. He…he used the skin to write a spell."

John fell silent and mulling over what he'd just learnt Jim took a sip of his own whiskey. Convocation was an exacting ritual at the best of times, difficult to control. Powerful spirits could be conjured and if you weren't prepared, protected properly they could overwhelm you. A summoning written on human skin would be even more compelling. He gave a shudder he could see now why John had been so spooked when he'd arrived back to find his youngest missing.

John ran a hand over his face, pressing fingertips into his closed eyes. "Trouble is I think it was my fault."

"That he summoned a Demon?" Jim was puzzled.

"No that the Demon Johansson summoned possessed him. I was so determined to stop the sonofabitch from completing the ritual." Raising his head John looked directly at his friend. "There was no manifestation of a spirit just this black smoke over the brazier and once the circle of protection had been breached it went for Johansson…rammed itself down his throat ..."

Sitting back Jim mulled over this new information. He'd heard of Demonic possession of course he had but he'd never witnessed it. A realisation squirmed its way into his consciousness along with a spark of dread. "Why…how did it know to come after Sam?" John couldn't have been that reckless as to give the Sheriff his real name.

"I don't know. Jim…" The answer came as a whisper. "But it knew me…by name. Jim …it knew about Mary and Dean and Sam."

This thing was getting freakier by the minute Jim rose to his feet and crossed to the window trying to gather his thoughts.

"I'm not sure what to think." He turned back to John. "D'you think it knows something about Mary's death? That's how it knew about you and the boys?"

Jim saw a fleeting shiver shake his friend's body before he spoke.

"Bill reckoned perhaps it could read minds Is it my fault Jim? Is it my fault that this thing found Sam?"

Jim had nothing. He wanted to reassure his friend, tell him that his sons were in no danger but he couldn't. Demonic possession was rare and in the witness accounts the Pastor had read he'd never come across a demon that could see into a human mind but that wasn't to say that they couldn't.

"I don't know John. We have so little to go on." It sounded lame even to his own ears.

"Jim…do you…do you think it could be the thing that killed Mary?"

What could he say, what the hell could he say. In the end he said nothing, not about Mary or the boys and he did what he did best, offered help.

"We could…." Jim considered several possibilities before he decided, "..call a friend of mine. He's had more experience with Demons than I have."

John handed him the phone.

XXXXXXXX

Slamming the Impala into gear John pushed down on the accelerator. He and Jim had talked well into the early hours of that morning and then John had insisted, despite the late hour, that the call to the friend be placed immediately instead of waiting for the morning. He couldn't wait, he had not time to wait if he was to keep Sam and Dean safe.

The half-asleep gruff voice on the end of the phone had been downright rude but had agreed to meet with John if the idjit could find his way to South Dakota without getting himself killed.

It was at that point that John had bundled Sam and Dean into the back of the car, despite Jim's protests, thrown their bags in after them and set of before the light of dawn had sleeked over the Impala's black surface.

That had been two days ago and they still had four hundred miles to go.

"Dad."

John ignored the plaintive appeal.

"Dad…Sammy needs to go pee."

"He'll have to wait." John's clipped reply was as much irritation at Dean asking for Sammy as the request to stop.

"'An I'm hungry." His youngest son's wheedling complaint just added to the well of frustration that had been building in John's chest for the last day and a half. Why the hell did this country have to be so goddamned big he needed answers now if he was to protect his sons. John pushed down again on the accelerator and the car smoothed forward speeding the scenery faster.

"Dad…I can't wait."

Glancing at his watch John realised that seven hours had gone since they'd properly stopped to get gas in a small one street town back up the highway. Knowing that gas stations would be in short supply John had filled the two cans in the trunk as well. The Impala was a fantastic car but she guzzled fuel. Those containers were now empty and he was gonna be forced to stop anyway.

"Next gas station."

"Need t'go now." Sammy was squirming.

The irritation spilled over into John's mouth. "Dean, deal with your brother."

Muffled whispering and shifting came from the back seat.

"Can't." Sam's whine.

"Yeah you can." His brother's coax.

"It's icky…"

"No its not…I do it all the time." The lie.

"You do?"

"Yeah."

More shuffling and the sound of a zip then silence.

"Dean, don't look."

"I'm not." John heard Dean shift. "There… I've got my back to you."

The unmistakable sound of pee trickling into a plastic bottle made John grin grimly, Dean was nothing if not resourceful.

More trickling and silence.

"You done?"

"Yep."

"Okay put the cap on and stick the bottle on the floor."

John shot the Impala forward again.

XXXXXXXX

Bobby Singer sighed as he bent to drop Rumpsfeld's food bowl onto the dusty ground. The hound, chain clinking, slobber dripping from his massive jaws sat his eyes fixed on his master waiting obediently for the word.

"Go on then you smelly mutt." Bobby patted the dog affectionately as it immediately stuck its nose in the wet meat gulping down the lumps without chewing. The sound of a car turning into the yard made the dog look up but immediately he resumed his meal after a muted "S'okay" from Bobby.

The seasoned hunter watched as the unfamiliar vehicle slowed and finally halted several feet away. He cast his expert eye over the sleek black lines, it was an Impala and he was impressed. It was a fine automobile and under the dust and mud of the road he could see that she was well looked after. He approved and the owner of the car went up a couple of notches in his estimation. Bobby's eyes moved up from the car's sliver trim to the windscreen and the driver whose bearded careworn face was stern but not unpleasant. John Winchester, Bobby presumed. It was quite a drive up from the Mission and the man must have floored the accelerator to get here this fast.

Fortunately for Bobby Pastor Jim had called back because from John's curt uninformative conversation the hunter had been not entirely sure as to why the man was coming to see him. Jim had explained as much has he knew about the situation, describing his friend's circumstances and a little about John's terse temperament.

Bobby sympathised with John Winchester. Becoming a hunter with two small boys in tow must have been hard, edging if not crossing the line of foolhardiness and as to irritability that didn't faze Bobby, after all he was a master exponent.

The sun flashed on the chrome as the car door creaked open and John Winchester exited eyes darting seeking out possible hiding places and exit points checking the whole area in the few seconds it had taken for him to gaze around the yard. He was unmistakably a hunter.

Bobby let the dust settle before approaching.

"Nice Car." There was a grunt of a reply and skirting the front of the car the man moved forward. Bobby introduced himself. It was a pointless exercise as Winchester knew who he had to be but for forms sake held out his hand.

"Bobby Singer."

John Winchester acknowledged him with an incline of the head but didn't move to shake the offered greeting.

"John Winchester?" Bobby supplied for him, there was another slight nod.

The rear door of the vehicle opened.

"Stay in the car." It was a growl, an order, which was obeyed instantly and Bobby saw two pale faces staring at him through the dirt-covered window.

He nodded towards them. "Your boys?"

Winchester ignored the inquiry to make a statement of his own.

"I need information."

Bobby snorted, who didn't, but he held his tongue, this man was obviously not in the mood for small talk. "Okay, bring the boys inside…"

"They stay in the car."

That stopped Bobby in his tracks, squaring himself he repeated his words adding to them and putting an emphasis on each word.

"Bring the boys inside for a glass of lemonade and we'll talk."

He didn't wait for an answer knowing that John Winchester would be obliged to accede if he wanted Bobby's co-operation. Trudging past the still slobbering dog the grizzled hunter mounted the steps to his front porch, smiling a little as he heard the car door creak open.

He was pouring two glasses of lemonade as the screen door banged. Looking up he took in the two boys. The taller one, Dean he surmised was broad for his age beginning to fill out the faded T-shirt which hung from his shoulders in crumpled folds. The boy was staring sullenly down at the floor fingers twisting, plucking at a tear in his baggy jeans.

Sam, the other, was stood behind his brother and in contrast was gazing with interest at Bobby from behind an unruly mop of chestnut brown hair dimples pitting his cheeks as he smiled openly.

"Hello boys," Bobby deliberately turned away and rummaged in an overhead cupboard, "I got some cookies here abouts, someplace." His hand closed around a half open packet. They were probably out of date but he suspected that the two Winchester's had doubtless eaten worse. He placed them on the table next to the lemonade and waited. Neither boy moved.

Walking past them Bobby slid open one of the two doors which led to the inner room. He indicated to John with a nod.

"We can talk in here."

There was a moment's hesitation from the father.

"We'll leave the door open."

Bobby walked past the man, continuing across the room with its piled high books to the equally piled high desk. He'd been researching since Pastor Jim had called but to tell the truth he'd come up with very little.

"Siddown before you fall down." It hadn't escaped Bobby's notice that John Winchester looked rough. The man had obviously not slept nor changed his clothes for several days and he held himself as if he was in pain. John sat but he didn't relax.

"I need to know about Demons."

'_So much for an easy opener_.' Bobby sat in his chair and leaned back watching John intently but he said nothing.

"I understand you have some experience…..with Demons."

"Some." Bobby didn't elaborate.

Giggling wafted its way through the open door and Bobby distinctly heard the rustle of the cookie wrapper. The corner of his mouth twitched. He'd never yet met boys who could resist cookies.

He returned his attention to the stiff man in front of him.

"Jim said something about your boys being involved."

"Not directly."

Bobby waited for John Winchester to continue; there was something in the man's demeanour that rang alarm bells in the back of the veteran hunter's mind. The man was telling the truth but probably not the whole truth. Jim had only been able to give Bobby the briefest outline of events but no detail and now Bobby's initial curiosity was piqued even further by the figure sitting so formally in front of him.

"You any idea of the type of Demon we're dealing with?" Carefully studying the hunter Bobby detected the merest whisper of surprise before a question was directed back at him.

"There's more than one type?"

"Yeah there's more than one type." Leaning forward Bobby continued. "What colour eyes did it have? Black? They're the most common. Red?"

"Yellow."

That startled Bobby and his mind raced trying to recall what he'd read. He'd never come across a Yellow-eyed Demon but that wasn't to say they didn't exist. He knew there must a system some indication of rank and order to demons and up until now he'd thought that the eye colour was unimportant or at most an aesthetic affectation but maybe ...His mind struggled trying to drag information to the fore and piece it together.

"On a recent hunt we…I disrupted a conjuration ritual….it was…a Sheriff…and he'd skinned..." John stopped and Bobby, pulled from his thoughts, waited seeing that the man in front of him was trying to control his emotions. He knew about the skinned children and involuntarily his eyes rose to watch the two small figures at his kitchen table.

"We had to stop him…whatever he was doing….there was a black cloud, hovering, a spirit manifesting and when I … shot Johansson and stopped him from chanting it…it kinda went after him and …" John rubbed his face.

"It rammed itself down the idjit's gullet, right." Bobby finished for him.

"You've seen it?"

"I've seen demon possession before, yeah… Then what happened." There was more to this than there first seemed. John Winchester was uncomfortable and not from witnessing a possession first hand.

Silence filled the space between the men Bobby carefully observing John Winchester's struggle with some inner demon of his own.

"Can Demons read minds?"

Shifting in his chair trying not to show his surprise Bobby fingered the large tome in front of him.

"What makes you ask?"

John stood and paced to the open doorway watching his son's flick cookie crumbs at each other before pulling the door closed leaving only a small gap. Turning he drew in a breath.

"It knew my name; it knew about Sam and Dean and there are only two possibilities that I can think of as to why." He swallowed and Bobby detected more than a ripple in the man's composure, "Either it's the thing that killed Mary or …it read my mind. How else could it know about me, about them?...and what the hell did it mean when it said I was to 'Look after them,' for him."

Worry growing in the pit of his stomach Bobby rose to his feet reaching for the whiskey. He needed a drink. The more John Winchester told him the more he felt out of his depth. He was supposed to be the expert here yet he knew little more than the man in front of him.

Demon activity was rare and seemed random in its choice of target and whereas Bobby could understand a demon targeting a hunter it came with the territory but why had it threatened Winchester's two boys? How had it known about them? He could see John's reasoning. The thing that had killed his wife had been in the house in Sam's nursery but it'd had plenty of opportunity to kill or take the boys then. Why leave them, why wait if it wanted them? Did it have a thing about kids? It had been summoned using the skin of six children. Bobby wondered if that'd had any bearing on the particular demon summoned but then the other possibility, John Winchester's conjecture that these things could read minds might be right. That sent an even bigger shiver down Bobby's spine.

Keeping his speculation to himself Bobby poured John Winchester more than a full measure of whisky. "Is there anything else you can tell me?"

Again Winchester hesitated as if he wanted to blurt out what was bothering him but couldn't. This guy sure had some trust issues, not unusual most hunters did but Bobby had a gut feeling that it went further than that.

"When I got back I found my youngest was missing."

Bobby held out the glass. John accepted, cradling the crystal in his callused hands.

"When we...Dean found him, Sammy had deep marks, bruises on his arms and told us that a man with yellow eyes frightened him so much that he just ran... My boys don't run for nothing Mr. Singer."

Even on his short acquaintance with John Winchester and his two sons Bobby could well believe that statement. Neither of the boys had moved without John's say so and Dean looked like he'd been training for most of his young life. Bobby took a long deep draught of his whisky. It was rough and he let it burn down his oesophagus while he tried to formulate a reply.

Mind reading Demons were a new one on him and if it wasn't mind reading then what connection did the Yellow Eyed Demon have with the Winchester family. What the hell was he supposed to say? This man had come to him for help, for answers but Bobby wasn't sure that he had any only more questions.

XXXXXXXXXX

John took one last look at the two pairs of eyes watching him.

"Go to sleep."

Immediately Sammy's eyes shut but Dean stared and kept on staring making John feel that somehow he had failed his eldest. "Dean…" The eyes closed and John felt able to click the door closed.

Bobby Singer had insisted that they stay. John had been reluctant initially preferring to hole up at the motel he'd seen back down the road but he'd noted the wards and protection symbols which surrounded Singer's house and yard and as the hunter had rightly pointed out they needed to talk.

The stairs creaked as he descended and a delicious smell enveloped him.

"Through here."

Singer called out and John rounded the doorpost to see the hunter placing two steaming plates on the table.

"Sit, eat."

His host, not watching not waiting, sat and ate himself.

John after a moment's hesitation crossed to the sink and scrubbed three days of grime from his fingers before joining his companion. The food was hot and delicious and John's stomach grumbled appreciatively as he placed the first juicy piece of meat into his mouth. The man opposite him barked a laugh, tore some bread from a large home-baked loaf and passed it over. John unceremoniously dunked it in the gravy took an enormous bite and chewed. Another laugh from his companion almost had him grinning.

Suspicious at first of Bobby Singer, the man's gruff pragmatism and no-nonsense manner had eased John's anxiety. Never one to share, even before his wife died, John found it hard to open up, to admit that he was out of his depth but Singer hadn't pushed, hadn't tried to be his buddy and John had slowly found himself liking the man.

Now settled once again in the study, with another whisky in his hand, he fought against the soporific effects of a full stomach. Earlier, over the meal, he'd tried to broach the reason why he'd driven across two states at break neck speed but Bobby had shushed him and refused to discuss anything while he was eating claiming it spoiled his digestion.

John had waited expecting the hunter to ask him some more questions but instead Bobby had risen, laid a couple more logs on the fire and had then settled back into his well-worn office chair stretching socked feet towards the heat.

He'd made no attempt to engage his guest in conversation and didn't look as if he was going to. John's frustration finally boiled over.

"I want to summon the demon."

John came straight to the point. There was no point in gift-wrapping.

"Are you some kind of Idjit."

Bobby Singer sat up and leant forward, gone was the companiable lethargy. John squirmed slightly under the scrutiny and avoided eye-contact staring instead at the flames licking up the side if the wood.

"Do you have any idea of the forces you'd be playing with, of what you might unleash?" Singer was round the desk now looming over him with incredulity. "What about those boys upstairs, you have a responsibility towards them."

"Don't you think I know that?" John stood and turned away from the accusatory stare of the elder hunter. He knew what he was risking but he was doing it for them. He had to know.

"What happens to those boys when you don't come back or worse when it comes for them and you're not here."

"It won't come to that."

"Won't it.? I expect Johansson had your confidence." It was a low blow and Bobby Singer knew it.

John, faced the angry man. "I have to try. For them…" John pointed to the stair and ultimately to the room where his two sons lay sleeping. "I have to try."

"Don't be so damned dramatic. You have a problem we'll work it out but summoning the damn demon is a downright, dumbass thing to do with brass knobs on."

The fire cracked and popped in the grate disturbing the tense silence. John knew that Bobby was probably right. It was a huge risk but John felt that the risk was justified, better than living his life looking over his shoulder waiting for the Yellow eyed sonofabitch to find him or the boys. His decision was made.

"So you won't help me."

"I didn't say that." Bobby's gaze never wavered. "But we don't have to go at it like a bull at a gate."

Inwardly John gave a sigh of relief, Singer was gonna help him. He had been prepared to go it alone, fight whatever was coming to the best of his knowledge and ability but for him it was unknown territory. John had been a lone protagonist for a long time now and it was not something normally that bothered him but on this job his lack of knowledge made him vulnerable, exposed. The threat to Sam and Dean always a background concern after Mary's death was now real, up close and very personal.

He'd always kept the boys existence on a need to know basis. Only Jim, Bill and a few others knew his true circumstances and that's the way John had kept it. The Demon's threat to both boys and the possible attempt to kidnap Sam had freaked John more than he was prepared to admit but hell anything that went after his sons was going to have to go through him. However now with Bobby Singer's help he might just gain the upper hand and find out what the crap was going on.

Singer was still regarding him with a steely eye. "What makes you think that summoning a goddamned Demon is gonna help."

Singer said this as if it was the worst idea ever and it probably was but John could think of no other way to get the information he needed.

"I need to know what this Yellow-eyed Demon is and what it wants with my boys."

"And you reckon its gonna tell you. You gonna say please…nice like and its gonna spill its guts."

Put like that it sounded ridiculous but John could see that Bobby Singer took no pleasure in his words. He stared down at the empty glass in his hand. He didn't even remember drinking the whiskey and suddenly he felt tired; his body weighted down, his mind so full that he couldn't think straight. Wiping his hand over his face John pressed his fingers into his eye sockets trying to rub away the fatigue.

"Sleep." A hand took the glass from John's slack hold. "I'll make another bed up in the room next to the boys.

"No I…" John's protest was cut off.

"It's not a suggestion." Bobby Singer stood over him an immovable mountain and John too tired to argue capitulated in a most un-Winchester like way.

XXXXXXXXXX

Thank you to those who reviewed your comments were much appreciated. So glad you are enjoying reading.


	8. Chapter 8

Dean woke, too hot curled around his brother in the narrow bed. Sam had crawled in as soon as they'd heard their father's steps retreating down the staircase.

At six Sammy was a scrawny kid all, elbows and shoulder blades, but he was getting too big to sleep with his brother in a single bed. Dean complained and rolled his eyes whenever Sam asked but he'd always lifted the cover to allow his brother to scoot in and settle next to him.

Slipping carefully out from under the blankets, tucking his pillow along Sam's back so that he wouldn't feel the cold, Dean slipped on his jeans and padded barefoot to the bathroom. The room was small, functional and way cleaner than the motel's washrooms that he and his family frequented. The old guy obviously lived alone, one toothbrush, one facecloth, one towel which Dean used after washing his hands.

The unmistakable fragrance of frying bacon wafted up from the kitchen and Dean could hear Mr Singer humming as he cooked. Dean paused on his way back to Sam and leant over the banister, the smell made his mouth water. The few times Dean had tasted bacon it had been more than delicious. Dad never bought bacon he said it was too expensive but occasionally when Dean'd had money he'd got himself and Sammy several slices and they'd enjoyed it the juice and melted butter running down their chins as they ate.

Dean wanted to go down, he wanted the bacon but he was worried about what his Dad would say. Dad didn't like it when they talked to people without him being there. They might let something slip. He sniffed the air again, the bacon sure smelled good and Bobby was a hunter, the guy knew the score, he knew about the monsters and stuff and last night he'd told Dad off, Dean'd heard him. A tiny seed of respect nestled inside Dean's gut; not many people had the balls to stand up to Dad and of those who did not many came out unscathed. The bacon won out and Dean, with a glance at his still sleeping brother, put his foot on the first step.

Not wanting to alert the hunter Dean kept his feet to the out edge of each tread. He needn't have bothered.

"Lay the table, cutlery's in the top draw in the cabinet by the backdoor."

Bobby Singer, looking much the same as he had the night before, had his back to Dean busy at the stove. Dean didn't move.

"You wanna eat you gotta earn it, gotta list of chores a mile long waitin' for you."

This Dean understood, orders, scutwork, payoff. The hunter turned frying pan in hand and Dean could see thick slices of bacon crisping along side the eggs.

"Well?"

Keeping his back to the wall Dean slid along the line of cabinets and pulled open the drawer. The knives and forks were neatly laid in each section, all turned the right way and all gleaming. This guy had been in the army like his Dad. Dean glanced back at the hunter who was filling a plate with the hot breakfast food, he was beginning to like Bobby Singer.

The bacon was soooo good, crispy on the outside, soft and chewy on the inside. Dean, after Bobby had assured him there was more in the fridge for Sammy, ate every scrap. He had seconds and thirds and all the while Bobby sat nursing a large cup of coffee with a wry smile playing on his lips.

When he'd finished Dean made sure to clear away his plate, cup, knife and fork, wash them, dry them and put them away. At that point Bobby stood rinsed his own cup and then regarded Dean with a critical eye.

"So what'you good for?"

Dean was a little taken aback not really understanding what the hunter meant.

"What can you do?"

"I can strip, clean and reassemble a 9mm Glock."

Dean thought that Bobby looked impressed but the hunter said nothing. He watched as the man rose and lifted a jacket from the line of pegs. He threw it to Dean who caught it deftly.

"Get your boots on and follow me."

XXXXXXXX

Rounding the first pile of rusting vehicles Bobby slowed his pace, he didn't want to get too far ahead of the boy. He liked Dean, he seemed like a straightforward kid but there was something sorrowful in his eyes and he was downright subdued, if not surly in his father's presence.

Bobby knew the history. Mother dead, father absent most of the time both physically and emotionally and Dean struggling to look after his brother as best he could, moving from town to town like they did. No kid should have to go through that, it didn't seem fair to Bobby and John, may god forgive him, was altogether too hard on his son. Bobby'd seen the dispassionate way the man dealt with Dean, ordering him around. The kid couldn't breathe without his father's permission.

"Over here."

He'd stopped in front of his latest project, a 1969 Camaro, supposedly green under the rust and definitely in need of some tender, loving, care under the bonnet.

"As you can see she needs a little overhaulin',"

The boy stopped next to him looking the car over with suspicion.

"Its 427 generates 430 horsepower and 450 foot-pounds of torque but you can tune it to generate 524 gross horsepower if it has a four-barrel like this one, an' a specially tuned carburettor, tuned ignition and racing headers, plus you might get a little more if you strip the air cleaner an' air conditioner… Weren't more 'an sixty-nine of these beauties made." Bobby ran his hand over the wing. "Watcha think?"

"S'nice." Dean mumbled and Bobby only just caught the words because the boy's head went down.

"You wanna help?"

"Can I? Really? You mean it?"

The instant change in the boy took Bobby by surprise. Anticipation gleamed and the whole attitude of his youthful body changed.

"Course, wouldna asked if I didn't mean it….Drag that box over here."

Dean ran to do Bobby's bidding making easy work of the heavy box. He was strong and Bobby saw that there was fluidity to the kid's movement that smacked of years of training. He clenched his fists he was gonna have words with John about this. These boys needed some down time and he was gonna make sure they got it.

"Don't you help your Dad with the Impala."

Dean shook his head. "Dad says I might break something and he don't really have time to show me."

Shaking his head and leaning over the car Bobby showed Dean the various parts of the engine, teaching him what all the tools were for and how to apply them. He let the boy use the wrench showing him how to change the tension and gave him his own oily rag which Dean shoved into his back pocket exactly like Bobby did.

"Will it go now?" The earnest face looked up into Bobby's own. Dean was smiling, dirt smudged on his brow and his green eyes sparkling. It made Bobby feel good as he laughed.

"No, we still got a long ways to go yet, kiddo." He ruffled the kid's hair. "But you did good."

Dean practically glowed under the praise and Bobby concluded that the boy didn't get much in the way of approval, another thing he'd have to add to the list to talk to John about.

"We can work on her again this afternoon if you like?"

Managing somehow to look disappointed at having to stop and nodding eagerly at the same time Dean turned back to gaze into the engine compartment. Bobby laughed again Dean'd got the bug all right. Now, he thought, they'd probably have a hard time dragging the kid away.

"You wanna drink?" Bobby reached down to the cooler box concealed behind a rusting radiator. He always kept it full, "Just in case," he told himself. Looking guiltily back at the house Dean nodded a smile twitching at his lips.

"A beer?" The boy looked hopeful.

Handing Dean a bottle of coke, Bobby gave him his best 'like I would give you alcohol' look then settled himself down beckoning the young Winchester to join him.

Together amongst the rusting wrecks they sat in companionable silence, the man and the boy. The smell of motor oil filling their nostrils as the morning sun soaked into the cotton of their shirts, warming their skin. Bobby, pulling at his brew mused to himself that life didn't get much better

"DEAN." John's voice bellowed out into the scrap yard. "DEAN." He sounded pissed.

The change in Dean's demeanour was immediate, back was the droop of the shoulders, the frowning, sullen, angry expression. His feet shifted slightly but he stayed close to Bobby as the elder hunter stood.

"DEAN." The voice was closer and the scrunch of footsteps drew it nearer.

"Over here." Bobby shouted a reply.

John came into view around the pile of cars that hid the Camaro from the house. He was dragging sleepy looking Sam who was still dressed in his pyjamas.

"Where the hell have you been? How could you leave Sammy on his own?"

This was all directed at Dean who seemed to cringe lower at each question. Bobby quickly stepped in between the irate father and his son. Dean had done nothing wrong and it had been at Bobby's bidding that he'd left the house.

"That'd be my fault John. You and Sammy were still asleep and I thought it'd do no harm to show Dean my new baby here."

It was now his turn to take the wrath of the father who turned face dark with anger.

"How dare you take my son. Don't you think I have enough problems without you undermining me at every turn?"

"Now hold up there John." Bobby stepped forward. "I did no more an feed the young un and then show him a thing or two about cars. Somethin' maybe you shoulda done…."

"Are you saying that I can't look after my boys."

Ouch Bobby inwardly winced he'd touched a raw nerve there. No way would he say that John hadn't looked after his boys but the man needed to ease up a little now and then.

"John, Sammy was asleep as were you, I got ways and means of hearin' anyone that comes up to the house and if it were somethin' ….bad then I got ways of hearin' that too."

John Winchester was beginning to grate on Bobby. The man had no trust even with people who were trying to help him. Part of Bobby understood why but he also knew that the hunter had to learn to share his burden or he was gonna crumble under its weight.

"Dean take Sammy and get him washed and dressed I think Mr. Singer here and I have a few things to get straight."

Winchester almost pushed his youngest at Dean. Sammy stumbled and tripped nearly falling head long to the ground but his brother was there to catch him, whispering into his sibling's ear as he righted him and using his T shirt to wipe away the tears that were beginning to form on Sammy's little pinched face he led him away.

Bobby waited until he heard the door bang after the brothers before he spoke.

"Dean was helpin' me, doin' chores for his keep. I would have thought you'd approve of your kid not takin' charity."

That hit home John Winchester was not a man to take kindly to someone suggesting that he took handouts. The younger hunter bristled but Bobby continued not letting the man interject. Things had to be said and it looked like Bobby was the only one that was gonna say them.

"John you gotta let up on the boy."

Winchester stared at him but Bobby wasn't about to flinch or deviate from his theme.

"He's a great kid, only you don't seem to see that. From the little time you've been here all I have seen is you wailin' on the kid for not being perfect. He's a ten year old John not a grunt."

Snorting indignantly John made to turn and retrace his steps back to the house but Bobby stopped him, dropping his voice.

"It ain't healthy John."

He didn't want to pull the father down completely but he was unprepared for the weary face which turned back toward him and he was deeply affected by how destroyed John Winchester looked. Sighing John lowered his gaze to the gravelled ground.

"Don't you think I know that Bobby, don't you think I want to go down the ball-park and play catch with him or take him and Sammy swimming at the pool or…."

John broke off and Bobby saw the father briefly before the shutters came down and the hunter returned. He understood John's fear and his anger subsided, sympathy taking its place but he knew John Winchester would not accept any show of kindness.

Gruffly he cleared his throat. "I'm not sayin' you shouldn't train the boy. In fact I think it's a good idea but you gotta let him be himself now an' again; not your boy, not Sammy's brother but himself. Dean's a good kid an' he's bright, he picked up a wrench today like he knew how to use it already without me saying nothin." Bobby put his hand on John's shoulder. "All I'm sayin' is every now and then let him be."

All Bobby got was a brief nod but it was enough, he'd got through to the man and so he was satisfied that John would at least think about what he'd said.

XXXXXXXX

The day was going slowly Bobby had dumped a pile of books a mile high in front of him and told him with a smirk at his expression to get reading.

John had opened the first volume and scanned the contents and then looked up at Bobby quizzically unsure of what he was supposed to be looking at.

"What you expectin' the A – Z of Demons?"

Grinning back John took the hint, turned the first page and began reading.

That had been four hours ago and despite several pages of notes John didn't think he was any nearer finding out what or who the demon with yellow eyes was. Sighing he shut the book in front of him and rubbed at his eyeballs pressing in and massaging the ache. Bobby had been sat at his desk for the first two hours but then announced that he needed a break, had beckoned to a restless Dean and left through the back door. John wearily set aside the book he'd finished and reached for the next. It was then he noticed Sam.

His youngest was sat cross legged on the floor leaning up against the armchair with a huge leather-bound tome, nearly as big as himself, resting on his knees. He was reading avidly tongue playing on his lips in concentration. Every now and then he turned a page running his finger down the dusty print until he found something that took his interest. Then he leant forward peering at the writing, frowning until he made sense of the meaning.

"What you got there son?"

"A big book Daddy." There was no trace of disrespect or impudence it was purely a statement of fact. " 'An it's got loads of intresting stuff." John watched him turn another page to reveal a large engraving. Sam viewed the illustration carefully then lifted his young serious face to his father. "Are you gonna kill all the monsters in the whole world Dad?"

John barked out a laugh. "I'm gonna try Sammy." Then inside he felt his heart squeeze and he whispered again. "I'm gonna try."

Slowly John opened the book in front of him, he hadn't given up hope of finding the information he needed but he was realising that it might take longer than he'd first envisaged. His initial intention of summoning the Demon and killing the sonofabitch now seemed ill conceived and over simplistic. In all of his research nowhere had he found anything that could kill a demon, absolutely. There were hints; tantalising glimmers that such knowledge existed but he could find nothing concrete.

Neither had he found any mention of a Yellow-eyed Demon. John skimmed the contents page. The archaic typeface danced feeding the burgeoning headache pulsing behind his eyes. He was dog-tired despite nine hours of sleep and he could feel his concentration slipping.

Slamming the book shut he stood and stretching his arms above his head he leant back pulling the stiffness from his shoulders and back. He needed clean fresh air. The sun might be streaming through Bobby's study window but it only served to emphasise the accumulated dust in the room.

Skirting the desk he made for the door then remembered Sam.

"Wanna go for a walk Sammy?"

"M'reading." The mop of brown hair stayed down hanging over the mottled pages.

"Sam!" It came out as a bark much harsher than John had intended despite his resolve to be more of a parent than a drill sergeant. He pulled himself up abruptly remembering Bobby's earlier words and softened his approach.

"Let's go see what Dean's been doing."

The effect was astonishing although John shouldn't have been surprised. The book, forgotten, slammed to the floor and Sam's hand was in his pulling him towards the screen door.

"D'you think he's built it by now. I bet Bobby gives him the car. D'ya think Bobby'd give me a car when I'm old enough? That'd be sooooo cool. Can I go for a ride with him Dad? Pleeeese."

John let Sam drag him down the porch steps enjoying the prattling enthusiasm that never ceased all across the yard and around the pile of discarded autos.

"WOW."

Sam stopped abruptly obviously awed by the sight of Dean smeared almost black with grease and engine oil as he sat next to the hips and legs of Bobby which poked out from under the Camero.

"Hey Dad."

White teeth flashed in smile so wide that it made John's heart swell. His son looked happy. Then a rush of sadness swept over him alongside a determination to do right by his sons. Sam and Dean were precious to him and yes his first priority was to keep them safe but he realised again that Bobby Singer was right there were times now that they were older when and he was going to have to give a little.

However that did not mean he was going to slack on the training; Dean especially. If he was going to give his eldest son more freedom then he was going to make damn sure the boy knew how to take care of himself and his brother.

"Look at you." John leant down and ruffled his eldest hair. "Gonna have to put you in charge of the Impala."

"Really?" Dean was hopeful and doubtful.

"Yeah really," Crouching down next to his son John picked up an encrusted spark plug. "With a few more lessons I reckon you'll make chief mechanic."

Bobby rolled out from under the car revealing himself to be as black as Dean. He smiled up at John, nodded at him and winked at Dean. "Probably'll own his own garage some day."

"Probably." John agreed sending out a prayer that whatever deity was listening would grant his son that wish.

" 'An I'm gonna look after Bobby's library." Sam announced not to be left out grinning, dimples showing on his cheeks. " 'An get more an' more books on …on everything."

Rumpsfeld, lying on the porch in his usual position, lifted his head, pulled from his afternoon snooze as laughter rang out over the wrecking yard. He sneezed shaking his large head, ears flopping, drool flying before he rested back down. Alert discontinued.

XXXXXXXXX

"Have you ever summoned a Demon?"

Bobby was hit with the question as he came through the door rubbing his hair with a towel. He'd made Dean go wash up first smearing him with the green gel of grease remover before even allowing him in the house. Sam had danced around the two of them shouting that Dean looked like a Snot Monster and narrowly avoided getting a face full of the evil smelling stuff from his brother.

Both boys were now lounging all over Bobby's sofa in the front room watching cartoons with a bowl full of sweet popcorn and the man himself had finally been able to use his own bathroom to shower the grime from his body and don clean clothes.

John had gone back to the research as soon as they'd got into the house. He was one driven man Bobby concluded, although he'd been please to see that John had taken their frank exchange of views on board and loosened his steely grip on the boys somewhat. The elder hunter hoped that it would last but he had a bad feeling that as soon as anything came near the two Winchester siblings John would again clamp down. It was in his nature and Bobby knew that however hard the father fought against the hunter he would always slip back to the ingrained behaviour.

Pulling the towel down he regarded John and answered the man's question.

"No."

It came out as a growl and he immediately pulled back, calming the surge of feeling that had suddenly risen to choke his throat but too late John had picked up on it.

Sitting back the hunter raised an eyebrow searching Bobby's face for the reason behind the change in his demeanour.

"You okay?"

Bobby squirmed he didn't want to do this, he never wanted to do this… with anyone.

"I'm fine. You found anything?" Trying to sound 'normal' Bobby sat on the scruffy sofa under the window still rubbing absently at his wet hair.

"Now you're avoiding the issue."

"There _is _no issue." The growl returned and in the silence that followed Bobby felt a prick at his conscience. Not that he had anything to feel guilty about or that he owed John Winchester any explanations but somehow this family had got under his skin and maybe he could stop this now; stop John from doing something totally foolhardy.

Sighing he leant forward pushing his hand over his hair to the nape of his neck, smoothing absently over the taught muscles.

"John, Demons are nasty things, powerful, unpredictable, amoral and that's not mentioning that they're downright dangerous. To summon one you gotta be two cans short of a six-pack."

"So you said before but I'm not hearing a whole lot more."

Damn him, the man didn't give up.

Looking at the floor Bobby exhaled. "Look, John, I know what you're going through, what you've been through …" The scrape of chair legs on the wooden floor cut him off. John Winchester was up on his feet and rounding the desk.

"How can you possibly know?"

He was dismissive and Bobby stood matching Winchester's height with his own anger burning in his veins.

"I know 'cause a demon killed my wife."

"Thaaatss allll folks." The cartoon's, happy silly sounds drifted from the other room, the perky liveliness in blunt contrast to the heavy stillness between the two hunters.

Bobby, immediately the words were out of his mouth, regretted their utterance. He hadn't wanted to tell John about his life, about his private things but the man was so fixated on this summoning and Bobby needed to bring home to him the rashness of his proposed action.

"She…"

"You don't have to tell me." The anger was gone from John now replaced in his eyes with a deep sympathy. Bobby wanted to punch him. He didn't want sympathy and he didn't want understanding.

"I know I don't have to tell you but how else am I going to get it into your thick head that what you want to do is stupidity itself."

Bobby watched as John, sighing, sat on the edge of the desk and looked up. "I'm not asking for your approval Bobby, I'm gonna do this with or without you but I am … asking for your help"

"You're a stupid stubborn-assed idjit you know that don't you."

John grinned a reply. "Takes one to know one."


	9. Chapter 9

**Well his is the final stretch for this story folks. Its seems such a long time since I sat in the auditorium of the first Vancouver Con, having done a road trip with a good friend to get there, and speculated how and what John knew about Sam. This was where I decided to write this story.**

**It doesn't resolve the situation for John and the boys, in fact it just adds more pressure onto John but we all know how it turns out. **

**I have a few other completed stories about the Winchesters that I will post in due course but in the meantime, thank you to all those who have read and a double thank you to those who reviewed. **

**I would like to know what everyone thought if you would like to leave a few words I would be very grateful. Thanks again. **

**Steffs**

XXXXXXXXXX

The cicadas sounded louder out here in the open, their creaking filling the space at the roads intersection. John glancing around calculated the length and breadth of the metalled expanse beneath his feet, roughly judging the centre.

Bobby Singer had managed to persuade him that a full on conjuration was definitely not a good idea particularly when you're not sure what the hell you are summoning. John had reluctantly given him that one. It made too much sense for him to ignore and besides he still had no idea how to kill the thing even if he did come face to face.

This here, standing in the middle of a crossroads, was a compromise. Call it a recon exercise - John understood that. Bobby had reluctantly come up with the suggestion when John had refused to reconsider abandoning the idea of a convocation altogether. He needed information on Demons and where best to get that information? Well probably not a demon but as the 'Intel' on Demons in Bobby's books was entirely underwhelming he had nowhere else to go.

Bobby had reluctantly spent another day pouring over each scrap of folklore he could find. A lot of the lore as far as John could make out seemed to be mixed in with heavy doses of superstition and archaic belief, most of it contradicted itself and some made no sense at all. Grumbling and muttering Bobby kept up a general undertone mentioning more than once the stupidity of the whole enterprise but he kept reading. John carefully avoided direct confrontation only asking questions when he needed clarification.

Several of the elder hunter's missals described assorted types of ritual for various levels of summoning. Crossroad Demons seemed to be somewhat down the chain of command requiring basic preparation and minimal protection. Bobby had cautioned John not to be complacent. These Demons might be of a lesser kind than Yellow-eyes but that did not mean they were 'friendly' or easily handled.

Marking the approximate centre of the crossroads John retraced his steps to the Impala glancing down at his watch. It was two hours till sunset he had plenty of time. Raising the trunk lid he reached in and pulled out a tin of paint. Levering off the lid with his knife John used a stick to stir and then to paint a large circle encompassing the whole of the crossroad. He then drew a second circle within the outer circle and painted on the symbols that Bobby had scribed on a piece of paper. John had no idea what the marks meant individually but Bobby had told him that they would snare the demon within its confines.

"It's a Devil's Trap." Bobby'd said by way of an explanation but when John had looked at him blankly he'd gone on to tell him that if a Demon walked into it then it couldn't get out unless John released it. John had then paused regarding Bobby with a doubting eye and had asked how Bobby knew it worked. The hunter had replied that John really didn't want to know but to be assured that it did.

He ruffled the vegetation on the verge so that it hid the painted track but didn't affect the density or break the lines. The deep colour of the tracks almost matched the hue of the road and John was confident that in the ensuing twilight they would only be seen if you were looking, carefully. No point in setting a trap if the prey was alerted to its presence before it was ensnared.

The circle and symbols were a negotiation ploy as well as a safety precaution. Bobby had pointed out that no demon was going to give John information willingly not unless it could see an advantage for itself and as the idea was to gain intel on Yellow-eyes then John had to have some leverage.

Finishing his task John unscrewing his flask poured the milky coffee into the cup and smiled. The one time he could do with a thick black coffee he got milk. Sipping the contents he leaned against the Impala watching the shadows merge as the sun set below the tree-line. He fiddled with the container letting his fingers tap on the sleek metal shell, the thrill of excitement tinged with apprehension knotting in his stomach. Part of him feared the confrontation but another part welcomed the action he was sick of sitting on his backside pouring over books. He needed to do _something_ and this was it.

John took a deep breath and strode into the centre of the crossroads. Crouching he dug a small hole before pulling a small tobacco tin from his jacket. He checked the contents. Graveyard dirt, Cat bone, several dried herbs and a photo of himself taken especially.

It wasn't until Bobby had listed this last item that John realised that he didn't have a photo of himself or the boys, driving licence and fake ID's notwithstanding. He had nothing, not even from before when Mary had been positively snap happy. Everything had gone up in smoke, literally. The thought had weighed on him heavily and it, coupled with Bobby's criticism had hurt but the man was right his sons deserved a life and after this he was going make sure they got one.

Firstly both boys were going attended school regularly, training could take a back seat and fit around their education and then he would try to spend as much time doing father son stuff as he could.

This last resolve was going be hard. There was nothing he would have liked more than to take his sons to a ball game or to sit down and help them construct those models that Sammy was so keen on but saving someone's life took precedence. It was important and he knew that Dean and Sammy, now he knew about his Dad's 'job', understood that.

John buried the small tin, pulling the dirt from the edges of the hole to cover the bright metallic picture of a naked woman on the lid. Goodness only knew why Bobby Singer even owned such a thing.

Standing John circled slowly staring in turn down the black line of each road as it vanished into the growing darkness. The breeze so evident earlier had dropped and an uncomfortable silence surrounded him.

"Bloody Hell! Can't a man get a haircut without some moron getting on the blower…"

There was no rush of wind, no crack of electricity, no footstep only the faint odour of sulphur. A figure had appeared, shorter than John, sartorially dressed in a dark suit with an equally dark shirt and tie. The white paper cape around his shoulders was the only discordant note in his outward aspect. Brushing at the loose black hairs sending them cascading to the ground the demon tore off the light mantel. Crushing the paper in his hands he threw it to one side before tugging at his rumpled jacket smoothing the creases and picking off minutiae flotsam. Finally satisfied with his appearance he lifted his head up to face John.

"Well, well what have we here?"

John swallowed and stood his ground. He could feel the twitch of his eyelid as he kept his gaze on the demon fascinated that this thing in front of him looked so ordinary. There was nothing 'demonic' about the figure, nothing to set him apart from every suited dick John had ever encountered. The guy wouldn't have looked out of place in a bank boardroom or a lawyer's office.

"Cat got your tongue, usually it's about now that they either run a mile or start begging for something."

The demon moved forward further into the trap, confident, assured, not at all abashed by John's silence.

"Hang on a minute, don't I know you?"

It was mocking him, faking its memory loss and John's blood ran cold. This thing, this demonic creature knew him, just like Yellow-eyes.

"Winchester….John Winchester. Oh excuse me while I take this in."

Grinning, elbow resting on a folded arm, the hand stroking its thumb and forefinger along opposite sides of its chin, the demon viewed him, looking him up and down like he was some kind of exhibit.

"It's not often I get to meet a bona fide celebrity." Then in mock horror the demon slapped his forehead. "But where are my manners," and it held out its hand to John in greeting. "Crowley…crossroads demon…King of Crossroad Demons actually but whose counting."

In complete contrast to the tight tension inside him, John outwardly remained impassive, ignoring the proffered hand. The demon, Crowley, was well inside the circle of the Devil's Trap and John had all night.

"What is it you want John? Fame, riches….a beautiful new wife?"

That hurt. John took a deep breath struggling not to rush in and beat the creature to a bloody pulp.

"I want information." John's voice steady and low and he stood his ground, body flooding, shaking with adrenaline. In front of him stood someone, something that could give him answers he'd been seeking for so long.

Crowley laughed. "Didn't your mother tell you 'I want never gets.'"

"Did that Yellow-eyed sonofabitch kill my wife."

"John, John there's no need for name calling, we're not going to fall out over a little misunderstanding, are we? After all it's all water under the bridge." Crowley walked towards him holding his arms wide in mock supplication. "Let bygones be bygones, no hard feelings and no harm done."

"Mary was my wife."

"I know, tragic and so unnecessary."

"Unnecessary?" John was suddenly confused. Crowley had called Mary's death unnecessary like it was nothing, like it didn't matter.

"Well it needn't have happened. You know wrong place wrong time."

It was so offhand that John found it difficult to comprehend. Mary's death had been the single most … the profoundest thing that had ever happened to him. It damn near killed him and it had set him on a path that he wouldn't, couldn't turn from.

"If only you hadn't fallen asleep in front of that TV." Crowley was taunting him. "If only it had been you that had gone into little Sammy's nursery. You can feel guilty for the rest of your life but it doesn't change the fact that nobody needed to have died if Yellow-eyes had been left to mark little Sammy as his own unhindered."

"What do you mean? Why would a demon target my family?"

"Now target is a loaded word… You could say 'interest' no 'invested' might be better. I do so love the English Language it's so expressive don't you think?" Crowley face brightened with a wide smile.

Slowly John backed away.

"Where are you going? And here was I thinking we were bonding, sharing."

Cold seeped into John's body. This was wrong, so wrong he was going to get nothing useful from this demon. All it wanted to do was mock him, lie to him.

"I want nothing from you."

"MORON." The shout of anger and derision hammered John. "Of course you want something from me. That's why you're here isn't it. That's why you summoned me. You want, need, to know who killed your perfect wife so you can carry out your pathetic little revenge. Well here's telling you for free John, Mary meant nothing in the scheme of things. She was irrelevant."

John lost it. "DON'T YOU SAY THAT." He forgot all Bobby's warnings, the fact that demons lie that they manipulate and let the words fill him with rage but despite the searing anger boiling inside him he still had the presence of mind to step outside the trap's lines. "YOU HAVE NO RIGHT TO EVEN SPEAK HER NAME."

Crowley followed him advancing, clearly finished with the taunts and mockery and ready to dispense with this irritating human. John stepped back again praying that the elder hunter's trap would hold.

It was like the demon had slammed into an invisible barrier. For a moment it looked surprised and then angry.

"What did you do?"

John allowed himself a smile. He had himself back under control and now he had the upper hand. "A little precaution."

"A Devil's Trap you drew a bloody Devil's Trap." Crowley gazed around, now seeing the painted lines. I gotta hold it to you John that was a good move but sorry to disappoint you it won't hold."

"It'll hold long enough." Drawing his journal from his inside jacket pocket John opened it at a page of scrawled writing. Bobby had copied the Ritual Roman down phonetically for him. All he had to do was read. "Preacipio tibi. Quicomque es spiritus iummunde…"

"Hey, hey let's not do anything stupid…"

John stopped reading but didn't close the journal. "Did the yellow eyed demon kill Mary."

There was silence as he watched Crowley's inner struggle. Then he'd waited long enough. "Et omnibus sociis…"

"All right, all right. Yes…"

John felt a surge of triumph. Paydirt!

"…but I'm surprised at you John." The smooth charm had returned and Crowley pulled again straightening his rumpled jacket. "I'd have thought you'd have been more worried about little Sammy."

Mind racing John tried to formulate a reply. This was a distraction he was sure of it. The demon was trying to deflect him, he'd taken on board Crowley's earlier comment about Sammy being marked but he'd dismissed it as trying to divert his attention from the Yellow Eyed sonofabitch and Mary. What other possible motive could the demon have to bring Sam into the mix but then Yellow-eyes _had_ told him to look after Sam.

Still suspicious John spoke, "What about Sammy?" He didn't buy into this, not yet, but on the other hand he couldn't dismiss it like he had before and the Demon in front of him knew that.

"Oh no John it's not that easy. See as I said before…Crossroad Demon… We don't give out Luncheon Vouchers."

"From where I'm standing you don't have much choice." John deliberately tilted his head and looked pointedly down at the painted arc on the road. "I hold all the cards."

Sighing Crowley threw up his hands.

"John, John what can I say I'm all heart…"

John was pleased to see that the demon's cocky confidence seemed somewhat deflated but he wasn't about to become bosom buddies. He held his ground and waited as Crowley continued.

"…suffice it to say that Yellow-eyes has big plans for your boy."

A large splash thumped onto the open page of John's journal, smudging the ink. Others joined it wetting the page, dissolving the words from its lines. Further splashes bombarded the ground leaving overlapping craters in the dust. Drops gathered on grass stems and flower heads bending the slim stalks till the overloaded blossoms drooped to the floor.

The rain continued pounding down soaking the two motionless figures. Each knew that the Devil's Trap was being washed away. Crowley only had to wait but John prompted by a growing fear had to ask one last question.

"What plans?"

Grinning, superiority restored Crowley swaggered towards John.

"You had your chance John and you blew it…." Crowley turned as if to walk away but then reconsidered." "…but I will do you a deal."

"No." The word was out fast, no hesitancy, no consideration. No way would John even contemplate a deal with this thing.

"Don't be too hasty there John. You don't know the terms."

"Nothing you could offer would make me deal."

"What not even Sammy's life?"

The patter of drops continued in the silence between the man and the demon. John's resolve was weakening and Crowley knew it. He'd gauged John's vulnerability and hit it smack on.

"This is a one time offer John." Crowley was serious now all the bravado, the charm school grin, the bold effrontery was gone. "I'll guarantee to protect Sam, make sure he's safe from …Supernatural harm anyway. In return you give me your soul."

John snorted derisively.

"As I said don't be too hasty John. Don't forget this is Sammy's safety, his _humanity_ we're talking about. I can keep Yellow-eyes away from him. I can put a spoke in the wheel of his plans. Isn't that worth your soul…and because I'm in a generous mood. I'll give you ten years before I collect. That's ten years John. You can watch your boy grow up."

To say that John wasn't tempted wouldn't be true. The thought that his six-year old was in danger and how he'd felt when Sammy had gone missing was almost enough to break him but deep down inside he couldn't do it. He couldn't be beholden to some …some…Demon. It went against everything he held close and besides how could he know that what Crowley said was true.

"No."

Crowley didn't seem displeased or affronted. He remained sanguine and assured, waving a farewell

"Well John it would appear that our business is done." He looked around checking that the trap's circle had been broken. "Enjoy having a monster in the fami..." The last syllables were lost as the demon disappeared the Cheshire Cat grin lingering in John's mind taunting him.

XXXXXXXX

For long moments John stared into the dark, the rain flattening his pepper-salt hair dripping down onto his jacket in a patter of small detonations. Eventually forcing himself to move he quickly and efficiently expunged any evidence of his activity, packing the trunk, rearranging the interior to accommodate the wrapped half empty paint pot before climbing into the driving seat and roaring the Impala's engine into life.

The car ran swiftly in the dark John gripping, white knuckling the wheel holding his body so tight that he could hardly breathe. He drove heedless of direction; two hours, four hours the car eating up the black asphalt beneath its sleek chassis with a constant thrumming vibration.

What the hell had he done …or not done? Shock rebounded through him. Sammy, all this had something to with Sammy? John had been so intent on finding Mary's killer that it had never occurred to him that she had not been the target. In the silence of the car the revelation that his youngest son somehow featured in a demon's plans sunk into his stunned brain crowding in on him with its full import.

John shook his head trying to think clearly. How could he believe Crowley, a demon? The creature had every reason to lie. It was trapped it would have said anything to free itself but trying to reassure his doubt with these rationalisations utterly failed. John couldn't discount or discredit the demon's words because deep down, God help him, he believed them.

Sammy, Sammy, SAMMY… the name seemed to pulse inside his head, thundering, pounding. A dizzying, whirling nausea made him swallow. Wrenching the steering wheel John pulled off the road onto the grassy verge the Impala barely lurching to a stop before he'd the door open and was down on his knees retching violently.

Bile burned his throat and coated his tongue as his stomach continued to convulse long after its contents had been disgorged.

In pain both physically and mentally John rocked back and forth moaning and crying oblivious to his surroundings. His body's shivering escalating into a tremble and then to a shaking heaving shudder. He couldn't stop. Everything he'd held down, pushed down rose overwhelming him. He cried for Mary, cried for his sons hiccupping breaths uncontrollably as his emotions rushed up pouring out in a scalding, relentless surge.

Time meant nothing as he remained kneeling next to the Impala lost in his wretchedness. Thoughts came and went hurling themselves around his mind, twisting and crashing, splintering into incomprehensibility. Anger ripped through him turned inward in disgust at his own inability, his inadequacy. His fist smashed into the door again, and again and again. Smashing, beating his frustration into the dark metal panel.

Sharp, acute pain penetrated his torment brought him back and he collapsed down exhausted.

He must have slept because he had no recollection of the day breaking but when he open his eyes the light lanced pain into his already aching head. A cool breeze travelling his sweat and rain saturated skin made him shiver and he realised he was still kneeling, curled forward, arms clutched tightly around his middle.

Leaning heavily into the body of the car he took comfort, the feel of its strength and solidity at his side grounding him in his despair.

What the hell was he supposed to do? He'd discovered who, or more like, what had killed his wife but far from him being able to work towards closure a great gaping ravine had opened up and Sammy was on the other side. John's mind struggled he couldn't comprehend what the yellow-eyed sonofabitch wanted with his son. Why Sam and where was Dean in all of this? Did it have plans for him as well? The questions went round and round getting more and more tangled but there was no resolution only more unanswerable dilemmas.

Slowly, stiffly John pulled himself up clinging, keeping contact with the Impala. He felt, needed its presence. If he let go he knew he would be lost sucked into the whirlwind of thought and anxiety that played around him.

What was he supposed to do?

The morning sun warmed his face as he leant back against the curving side of his vehicle. Eyes closed John reigned in his fear and cleared his mind. The anger still burned inside with ferocious intensity but he was calmer now his brain assimilating and digesting, working through the possibilities.

In reality this new information, this revelation changed nothing. He'd just add finding out about the demon's plans for his son into the equation; essentially though his mission remained the same.

Ganking the sonofabitch that'd killed his wife stayed at the top of his list only now there were two reasons to expunge it from existence.

It didn't matter what the dick wanted with his son because it wasn't going to live long enough to see any of its plans come to fruition.

XXXXXXXXX

Bobby heard the Impala before he saw it.

"Hold onto your brother Dean and stay put."

He brushed aside Sam's protests with a meaningful stare at Dean who grabbed at his brother to stop him running out to meet their father.

"Just wait Sammy let Bobby check things out."

His voice was a little tremulous but Bobby knew Dean understood. Bobby wanted to judge what state their Dad was in before he let them out but the hunter never got the chance as he reached for the screen door it was pulled back violently and John filled the doorframe.

"Get your stuff together boys we're leaving."

"Hold on John…" Bobby stood in front of the hunter hand up in disapproval.

"DEAN…" John barked at his still immobile eldest. The scraping of chair legs and the footsteps on the stair treads told Bobby both boys had obeyed. He was glad because now he could confront the sonofabitch idjit in front of him.

"What happened?"

"None of your goddamned business."

"Christo."

"I'm not a damned Demon Singer."

The lack of a flinch confirmed that much but that didn't stop Bobby wanting to find some holy water just to be extra sure. However, John looked like he was bristling for a fight and Bobby decided that discretion was the better part of valour but he did hold his ground, he wasn't going to let the man intimidate him. Something had obviously gone down and John Winchester wasn't leaving until Bobby had gotten the lowdown. He at least deserved that for his trouble.

"John…" He stopped as the hunter pushed past him. "JOHN…" He followed the man into the study. "Tell me… you at least owe…."

"I don't owe you squat."

So help him Bobby punched. John went down sprawled on the threadbare carpet, bleeding from a split lip.

"Now let's damn well calm down before I have to knock your idjit head through that wall."

John made no attempt to get up and Bobby was glad because his knuckles stung like crazy. It was a long time since he'd had to bare-fist anyone.

"What the hell happened out there?"

Slowly John pushed himself up to sitting, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth before smiling wryly.

"You pack a good punch."

"Sure do … now stop avoiding the issue or there'll be more where that came from. Tell me what the hell…"

John held his hand out and warily Bobby pulled him to his feet.

"The Demon came…"

"And?" Bobby waited in anticipation.

"And nothing."

"What? You did a dance and it left?"

John laughed at that. "No …it told me what I wanted to know."

"And?"

"I was right. The Yellow-eyed sonofabitch killed Mary."

"Again…And?" That wasn't all there was Bobby was goddamned sure that John was holding something back.

"And nothing…"

"Nothing about how or why it came after Sam?" Bobby thought he detected a slight tremor in the hunter's façade.

"Nothing about Sam."

The man was lying. He was good but Bobby had seen enough liars in his time to detect even the slightest untruth but he wasn't going to push. A man like John Winchester wasn't going to crumble under pressure and he obviously had his reasons for not wanting to tell Bobby the whole thing.

However, one thing was for sure he was going to make sure that those boys were gonna be okay before he let John out of his sight with them. Bobby liked the two Winchesters, sure they were funny looking kids but he'd begun to make inroads with them. Dean had dropped his reserve and Bobby had glimpsed underneath the surface to the empathy and care that the boy gave his brother. When he dropped his sullenness Dean had a warmth and a smile that was very attractive. Bobby was in no doubt that the elder sibling was gonna break a few hearts when he got a little older.

Sam was precocious, more outgoing than his sibling but there was a seriousness too, way beyond his six years, that left the young boy sitting contemplatively alone for hours at a time. Bobby had also found a kindred spirit, a connection with the boy. Sam loved books and languages as much as the hunter and he was good too, a natural.

In the last week when Bobby wasn't under the car with one brother he'd been instructing the other in the intricacies of Latin and Ancient Sumerian and it had felt good. Like living again and so Bobby was damned if he was going to let John Winchester drag his young sons all over without good reason. Those boys needed stability and a good home.

"So what now?" Ever pragmatic Bobby regarded John with his steeliest gaze. "You gonna hit the road again with no plan, no preparation." It was foolhardy and impetuous and he wanted John to see that. Bobby was no fool he knew he couldn't stop the man taking his sons and disappearing into the dust but he had to try and instil some sense into the situation. "Those boys need a home."

Hunting was a difficult life and John Winchester was going to get himself and his two boys killed if he continued to allow his anger and his grief to drive him.

"They got one, with me."

"All I ask John is that you take a small amount of time and think about things."

"I have thought about things Bobby, I've thought of nothing else. I am gonna find something that will destroy that sonofabitch and then I am gonna track its hide down and kill it before it can get anywhere near any of my family again."

There was nothing more Bobby could say as John practically threw the boys into the car shoving their gear in with them along with his own before he turned to look up at the man on the porch.

John Winchester hesitated then spoke.

"Thanks."

There was a moment of silence and then John dropped his eyes before slipping into the front seat and starting the engine.

Bobby leaning on the white post by the steps up to his back door watched the road for long minutes after the Impala had disappeared from sight. He only roused when a wet nose sniffed into his hand. Looking down Bobby scratched behind the dogs ears.

"What you doin' mutt? Ain't gonna do no good standin' around lookin' like a lost weekend." Bobby opened the screen door. "It sure is gonna be quiet around here …"

The door banged behind him.

THE END.


End file.
